THE  PORTRAIT; 


BY   A.    G.    DIDDLE, 

AUTHOR  OF  "BAKT  KIDGEiET." 


CLEVELAND : 
COBB,    ANDREWS    &    CO. 

BOSTON  :  NICHOLS  &  HALL. 
1874. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1873,  by 

A.    O.    RIDDLE, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  "Washington. 


Stereotyped  by  John  C.  Kegan,  19  Spring  Lane,  Boston. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    THE  PROPHECY 5 

n.    MORNING  AND  MOURNING 11 

III.  ALONE 15 

IV.  WHAT  WAS  SAID  ABOUT  IT 20 

V.    GREEN'S  TAVERN  AND  ITS  LANDLORD 24 

VI.    LAUNCHED  UPON  THE  STREAM 28 

VII.    SALLY'S  VIEWS 37 

VIII.    SIR  WALTER 43 

IX.    MR.  GREEN  EXPLAINS 53 

X.    A  WOMAN  AFTER  ALL i>9 

XI.  A  NEW  PENTECOST  — ITS  APOSTLE  — THE  NEW  EVANGEL 

AND  PROPHET 61 

XT!.    IT  is  A  PITY 70 

XIII.  A  PRINCE  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  JUDAH 75 

XIV.  THE  CITY  OF  THE  SAINTS.  —  BRIGHAM  YOUNG  ...  81 
XV.    SET  APART 88 

XVI.    THE  PROPHET'S  HAREM 92 

XVII.    THE  VISION  AND  CALL 97 

XVIII.    THE  LILY 99 

XIX.    THE  ROSE 103 

XX.    THE  CRISIS 107 

XXI.    THE  CALL  OF  FRED 115 

XXII.    TWICE  BOUND 123 

XXIII.  THE  GREAT  PREACHSR 129 

XXIV.  AUNT  MARY  DOES  HER  CHRISTIAN  DUTY   ....  135 
XXV.  TWELVE  YEARS.  —  TIME'S  CHANGES     .....  145 

XXVI.    BELLE  MORRIS 153 

XXVII.    THE  PORTRAIT 159 

XXVIII.    FRED 104 

XXIX.  THE  PORTRAIT  STEPS  FROM  ITS  FRAME      ....  171 

XXX.    PUT  ON  THE  DEFENSIVE 180 

(iii) 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXXI.    BELLE'S  REVERT 185 

XXXII.    A  WEIRD  HUNT 193 

XXXIU.    THE  EXCURSION  AND  RESCUE 199 

XXXIV.  FATHER  HENRY  QUOTES  PAUL  TO  BELLE       .       .       .  207 

XXXV.  AN  INTROSPECTION       ........  211 

XXXVI.    BELLE'S  LETTER 218 

XXXVII.    A  MESSAGE  TO  FRED 224 

XXXVIII.    AN  OLD  TIME  WEDDING 204 

XXXIX.  A  TRIBUNE  OF  THE  PEOPLE.  —  AN  OLD  TIME  GATHER- 

ING 241 

XL.    THE  GLORY  FADES 248 

XLI.    BELLE 253 

XLU.    BELLE'S  THEORY ...  261 

XLIH.  BELLE    ARGUES    HER    CASE    WITH    M».UD,    AND    is 

WORSTED 269 

XLIV.    MOSS-ROSES 275 

XLV.    AN  OLD  TIME  MURDER  TRIAL 282 

XLVI.    FRED'S  ARGUMENT 301 

XLVII.    AUNT  SALLY 316 

XLVIII.    AFTER 323 

XLIX.    THE  PORTRAIT  AGAIN 335 

L.    THE  STORY 344 

LI.    THE  CONFESSION 354 

LII.    THE  LOVERS 362 

LIU.  BELLE  SENDS  ANOTHER  MESSAGE   .       .       .       .       .  868 


'THE    PORTRAIT. 


CHAPTER    I. 

TUB    PROPHECY. 

ALL  the  short  rainy  autumn  day,  with  his  bare 
brown  feet,  and  scant, worn  and  soiled  roundabout 
and  pants,  had  he  been  walking  and  riming  through  the 
muddy  roads  and  by-ways,  down  through  Shalersville 
to  Ravenna,  and  finally  back  to  Freedom,  and  so 
across  the  woods  home.  His  poor  faded  mother  had 
been  suddenly  taken  worse  toward  morning  of  that  day, 
and  he  had  hastily  cut  and  carried  in  some  wood,  and, 
after  a  scant  breakfast,  had  hurried  off  for  the  doctor. 
He  had  gone  by  way  of  one  of  the  neighbors,  and  asked 
that  some  one  would  go  and  stay  until  he  returned,  and 
was  off.  He  would  give  the  doctor  his  five  mink-skins, 
that  he  had  caught  that  fall,  along  the  Cuyahoga,  and 
would  do  without  a  new  preceptor  and  spelling-book. 
Now,  weary,  famished  and  disheartened,  as  the  early 
night  deepened  in  the  leafless  trees,  he  hurried  towards 
home,  with  an  unusual  depression  and  foreboding,  lie 
nad  failed  to  meet  the  doctor,  and  had  only  left  word 


6  THE   PORTRAIT. 

for  him  at  his  residence,  and  the  places  where  his 
patients  lived.  All  the  day  he  had  carried  over  his 
long  and  lonely  road  a  sad,  undefined  presentiment. 

It  was  already  quite  dark  as  he  hastened  on.  He 
was  familiar  with  all  the  forest  paths,  and  could  trav 
erse  the  woods  anywhere  without  a  trail,  and  with  a 
sense  of  absolute  security.  As  he  approached  the  little 
clearing,  he  ran  forward  and  climbed  upon  the  decay 
ing  brush-fence  that  marked  its  uncertain  limits,  and 
paused  a  moment  to  look  at  the  log  hovel  but  a  few 
rods  distant  —  the  only  home  he  could  remember  —  with 
its  leaky  roof,  and  decaying  walls,  slowly  lapsing  to 
ruin. 

No  window  was  on  the  side  of  his  approach,  and  he 
could  detect  no  smoke  escaping  from  the  blackened 
opening  at  one  end  of  the  low  roof.  As  he  passed 
around  to  the  front,  he  stopped  to  listen  at  the  low 
door  of  rough  boards  that  hung  on  rude  wooden  hinges. 
No  sound  reached  him  ;  and  with  a  trembling  hand  he 
pulled  the  string  and  pushed  the  door  open,  into  the 
single,  dark,  silent  room. 

"  Ma,"  he  called  out  in  an  eager,  distressed  voice, 
with  the  tears  unconsciously  escaping  from  his  eyes.  A 
moan  answered  him  from  one  corner. 

"  Oh,  ma,  I  didn't  find  the  doctor  at  Ilines's,  and  I 
went  clear  to  llavenna,  and  they  told  me  he  had  gone  up 
to  sec  old  Mis  Roper  at  the  centre  of  Nelson;  an:l  I 
went  there,  and  he  had  gone  home  by  way  of  Randolph, 
and  I  missed  him,  —  I  hurried  fast  as  I  could.  lias 
pa  been  home  ?  "  Another  moan  was  his  answer. 

"Oh,  ma!  are  you  worse?"  An  undistinguishable 
murmur  was  all  he  heard  in  reply. 


THE    PROPHECY.  7 

"  Wliere's  John  ?  Has  nobody  been  here?"  faintly. 
He  went  to  the  broken  stone  hearth  of  the  jambless 
fireplace,  and  found  the  shortened  wooden  poker,  and 
stirred  open  the  ashes,  which  disclosed  the  glowing  re 
mains  of  the  charred  back-log.  Upon  the  coals  he  put 
some  pieces  of  hickory  bark,  and  soon  a  crackling  flame 
leaped  up  and  revealed  the  wretched  room,  with  its 
two  or  three  broken  chairs  and  wooden  stools,  —  its 
ricket}*,  rough  table  standing  by  the  poor  thin  bed, 
upon  which  lay  the  weak  and  suffering  woman. 

The  boy  again  approached  the  bed,  and  was  frightened 
by  the  change  in  the  face,  disclosed  by  the  ruddy  light 
of  the  fire. 

"  Ma !  ma !  "  said  he,  in  hushed  and  awed  voice. 
The  heavy  e}-es  opened,  and  the  face  was  with  an  effort 
turned  towards  him.  "Fred,  is  it  3*011?  —  I  feared 
you  wouldn't  come  —  I  wanted  —  to  tell  ye  —  ye  — 
I —  I —  ain't  yer  mother,  Fred  —  I  — " 

"  Ma  !  "  with  a  low  cry  of  anguish,  and  a  look  in  his 
great  innocent  eyes  like  that  with  which  a  young  fawn 
would  receive  a  death-blow  from  its  dam. 

"  No  matter,"  said  the  exhausted  woman,  "  yer  an 
angel  to  me." 

"  May  I  love  you,  ma?  May  I  love  little  Johnny?" 
in  a  low,  plaintive  voice.  The  poor  woman  moaned 
again,  and  tears  ran  over  her  faded  face,  and  broken 
murmurs  died  on  her  drawn  and  shrivelled  lips.  At 
last  she  said : 

"  Fred,  put  yer  fingers  on  my  eyes  for  a  little  — 
so  — ,"  and  he  stood  with  his  fingers  lightly  resting  on 
the  closed  lids,  and  listening  to  the  slow,  low  breathing. 
Slower  it  came,  and  then,  —  it  did  not  corne  again. 


8  THE    PORTRAIT. 

The  child  listened  with  a  great  awe,  and  a  great  pallor 
came  into  his  face,  and  what  next  occurred  he  never 
knew. 

A  plaintive  cry  from  John,  tying  by  the  side  of  the 
silent,  unbreathing  form,  aroused  him,  as  a  little  soiled 
face,  and  head  with  tangled  flaxen  hair,  started  up. 

"  Hush  !  hush,  John  !  "  said  Fred,  taking  him  from 
the  ragged  bed-clothes.  "  Hush  !  don't  cry."  Some 
thing  in  his  manner  seemed  to  awe  the  child,  who  stood 
half  naked  in  the  strong  light,  looking  frightened  at 
the  elder,  and  then  turning  towards  the  bed,  cried  out : 
"  Ma,'  ma  ;  Don  wants  micky  —  Don  wants  micky." 

"  Hush,  hush,  John !  she  won't  hear  you."  And 
going  to  a  shelf  he  found  a  pewter  basin,  from  which 
he  poured  some  milk  into  a  battered  cup,  and  gave  the 
hungry  child  ;  to  whom  he  also  gave  the  remains  of  a 
johnny-cake.  lie  then  drew  from  under  the  bed  a 
small  truckle-bed,  and  placed  the  appeased  and  sleepy 
John  carcfullj*  among  its  tattered  coverings,  where  he 
subsided  into  quiet  sleep. 

The  boy,  used  to  these  offices  for  the  3*ounger,  and 
doing  the  scanty  chores  about  their  wretched  home, 
mechanically  replenished  the  fire,  and  put  two  or  three 
things  in  their  places,  all  the  time  with  a  dumb,  be 
numbed  feeling,  aroused  by  the  words  :  "•  I'm  not  ycr 
mother."  lie  was  too  young  to  reason,  or  reflect,  or 
think  ;  he  could  only  feel  that  the  world  was  torn  from 
him  ;  that  his  mother  was  not  his,  that  "  little  Johnny" 
did  not  belong  to  him,  and  that  he  must  go  away,  —  but 
not  to-night ;  for  they  would  want  him.  Then  he  went 
on  his  tip-toes  towards  the  bed,  and  began  to  realize, 
in  his  childish  way,  the  awful  thing  that  had  happened. 


THE    PROPHECY.  9 

He  was  not  afraid  of  the  rigid  form,  that  was  dear  and 
tender  to  him ;  but  it  was  the  shadowy ,  unknown 
thing,  Death,  and  it  was  there,  and  he  shrunk  away 
a  little  from  it ;  and  going  out,  he  brought  in  more 
wood  and  placed  it  about  the  fire  to  dry.  Then 
with  a  gourd  shell  he  brought  fresh  water  from  the 
spring ;  and  remembering  that  he  was  very  hungry, 
drank  the  remainder  of  the  milk,  and  thought  lie 
would  bake  a  johnny-cake  ;  but  when  he  found  that 
there  would  not  be  more  than  meal  enough  for  a  cake 
for  breakfast,  he  gathered  up  a  few  dry  crumbs,  and 
contented  himself  with  them. 

lie  remembered  that  when  his  sister  died,  two 
3'cars  ago,  they  placed  a  clean  Avet  cloth  over  her  face  ; 
and  ransacking  a  small  chest,  from  which  the  lid  had 
been  broken,  he  found  a  white  rag,  which  having  mois 
tened,  he  carefully  and  reverently  spread  over  the  face 
of  the  dead.  Then  replenishing  the  fire,  he  removed 
his  clothes,  and  tying  down  by  little  John,  twice  or 
thrice  uttered,  with  folded  hands,  the  little  praj'er  his 
mother  had  taught  him  ;  and  with  a  haz}*  numbness  of 
heart,  he  went  to  sleep  ;  while  the  strong  fire-light, 
leaping  up  the  open  chimney-way,  for  a  time  lit  up 
the  wretched  room,  glinted  the  white  covering  on 
the  face  of  the  dead,  and  played  lovingly  upon  the 
features  of  the  sleeping  boys,  —  one  round  and  chubby, 
with  the  flaxen  locks  of  infancy,  and  the  other  dark  and 
beautiful,  with  long  black  eyelashes  fringing  his  brown 
cheek,  and  his  striking,  but  prematurely  old,  face 
framed  in  tangled  masses  of  dark  damp  hair.  The 
rain  subsided  into  sprinkles,  and  the  fitful  wind  was 
sinking  to  little  gusts  that  played  among  the  lew 


10  THE    PORTRAIT. 

belated  leaves  which  still  clung  to  the  trees  without, 
Within,  the  fire  burned  out  and  the  brands  fell  apart, 
throwing,  from  time  to  time,  a  sudden  Ilame  which  filled 
the  room  with  ghostly  shadows,  and  then  subsided  to  a 
red  glow,  that  gave  color  and  warmth  to  everything, 
until  that,  too,  faded  out.  An  eye  that  could  look  be 
yond  the  gross  and  material  world,  might  have  seen  the 
sordid  room  luminous  with  a  beautifying  radiance,  in 
the  light  of  which  soft  and  tender  fingers  were  remov 
ing  the  harsh  and  bitter  lines  of  earth  and  suffering 
from  the  face  of  the  dead,  and  bestowing  upon  the 
mouth  the  sweet,  indescribable  smile  of  serene  and 
beautiful  death  ;  while  loving  forms  were  bending  over 
and  kissing  the  eyelids  of  the  sleeping  children,  and 
leaving  on  the  brow  of  the  dark  one  a  wreath  of  min 
gled  light  and  shadow.  Had  this  sight  met  the  eyes 
of  a  seer,  he  would  have  prophesied  of  suffering  and 
final  triumph.  Was  it  martyrdom  in  this  world,  and 
crowning  in  the  next?  The  wreath  was  very  like  a 
garland,  and  its  roses  had  the  hue  of  earth. 


CHAPTER    II. 

MORNING    AND    MOURNING. 

MORNING  came,  and  its  sunshine  lay  rich  and 
warm  through  all  the  narrow  but  beautiful  val 
ley  of  the  Cuyahoga,  whose  scarcely  tinged  waters, 
escaping  from  the  AVelchfield  marshes,  plunged  through 
the  rocky  barrier  known  as  "  the  Rapids,"  and  sweep 
ing  southerly  along  the  eastern  border  of  Mantua, 
turned  its  vehement  current,  swollen  with  the  autumn 
rains,  south-westerly.  Below  the  bend  of  the  river,  on  its 
southerly  bank,  and  u  few  rods  distant,  stood  the  sol 
itary  cabin  mentioned  above. 

Silent  and  lonely  under  the  gilding  sun,  with  its 
rude  door  and  patched  and  botched  window,  and  all 
its  wretchedness  brought  out  from  the  night,  in  strong 
relief,  as  the  level  rays  illuminated  it.  Two  or  three 
acres  of  cleared  ground,  with  little  signs  of  cultivation, 
and  bearing  a  thrifty  eclectic  crop  of  thistles,  rnullen, 
dock  and  burdock,  surrounded  it,  with  a  little  imper 
fectly  paled  patch,  in  which  were  a  few  weed-choked 
vegetables,  ripened  and  shrivelled  by  the  late  autumn, 
without  a  pig  or  hen,  cow,  or  even  a  dog  to  relieve 
the  squalid  desolation  of  the  place.  A  pathway  led 
down  to  the  river,  where,  attached  to  a  little  tree, 
with  a  bark  painter,  lloated  Fred's  half-lilled  little  dug- 
(11) 


12  TITE    PORTRAIT. 

out.  Another  path  led  up  from  a,  clearing  a  little 
below,  along  which,  with  an  unsteady  step,  a  slouched, 
rough-looking  man,  with  bloated  face,  blood-shot  eyes, 
half-covered  with  tatters,  and  the  wreck  of  an  old  straw 
hat,  broken  down  on  one  side  of  his  matted  hair,  was 
straggling  up.  The  face  may  have  been  good  once, 
but  no  traces  of  youthful  freshness  or  purity  remained. 
An  unsuccessful  effort  to  troll  the  refrain  of  a  low 
drinking  song,  employed  the  small  surplus  of  faculties 
not  used  in  keeping  his  feet,  as  he  came  through  the 
belt  of  woods  into  the  field  surrounding  the  hut,  but 
was  hopelessly  abandoned,  as,  with  a  seemingby  infirm 
purpose,  he  approached  —  not  his  home  —  but  the  place 
where  he  sometimes  got  sober.  He  was  evidently  re 
covering  from  a  long  and  exhausting  debauch,  and  his 
eye  still  had  the  dull,  uncertain  swimming  of  inebria 
tion.  He  reached  and  steadied  himself  on  the  rotting 
wooden  step,  in  front  of  the  door,  at  which  for  a  mo 
ment  he  stared  with  an  earnest  intensity,  as  if  to 
remove  any  lingering  doubt  of  its  identity  ;  then,  with 
a  muttered  ejaculation,  he  dashed  the  door  open,  and 
partially  stumbling,  stepped  and  reeled  over  the  de 
cayed  door-sill.  Recovering  himself,  and  resting  with 
one  hand  on  the  door,  he  sent  his  stupid  stare  about 
the  now  well-lighted  hovel.  His  swimming  e^ycs  stop 
ped  on  the  covered  face  at  one  end  of  the  wretched  bed. 
"What  the  hell!  —  hullo,  old  woman!  —  I  say;  ye 
sleep  with  yer  —  yer  —  night-cap  over  3-01-  eyes,  eh?" 
Making  a  step  forward,  he  snatched  the  cloth  from 
the  dead  white  face,  which  for  a  moment  struck  even 
his  obscured  and  staggering  faculties.  The  noisy  en 
trance  of  the  drunken  man  awakened  the  children ; 


MORXING   AXD   MOURNING.  13 

•when  Fred,  with  his  eyes  staring  wide,  like  those  of  a 
timid  wild  animal,  into  which  in  a  moment  came 
something  of  the  instinctive  courage  of  the  brute, 
sprang  between  the  man  and  the  bed,  and,  with  all  his 
force,  pushed  him  back.  "  You  shall  not  touch  her ! 
you  shall  not  touch  her  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  she  said  she  was 
not  my  mother,  and  you  shall  not  touch  her  !  "  As  if, 
somehow,  this  declaration  released  him  from  all  respect 
for  the  person  of  the  intruder.  The  man  turned  and 
gazed  at  the  defiant  boy  with  uncomprehending  amaze 
ment,  while  John,  who  was  aroused  to  the  ciying  stage, 
put  up  a  dolorous  wail.  Beginning  to  be  sobered  b}' 
the  unwontedness  around  him,  the  still  dazed  man 
looked  wonderingly  about,  —  even  a  drunken  man  could 
not  fail  to  identify  the  place.  Presently  he  again  ap 
proached  Fred,  and  in  a  low  confidential  tone,  as  if  to 
assure  him  that  he  was  somehow  on  his  side,  if  he  only 
knew  where  that  was,  —  "I  say,  Fred,  eh;  old  teller, 
yer  know,  what  is't  ?  "  The  boy's  only  answer  was  a 
dumb  gesture  toward  the  bed. 

"  Eh  !  come  now,  tell  a  feller  ;  can't  ye?" 
"  She  is  dead  !  "  with  his  lip  quivering  and  tears  well 
ing  into  his  eyes. 

"  No  ;  yer  don't  come  that  on  me !  "  when  his  eye 
again  fell  on  the  ghastly,  changeless  face.  Something  in 
its  immovable  rigidity,  its  stark  pallor,  seemed  to 
strike  his  returning  senses,  and  he  dashed  his  soiled 
hand  over  his  bleared,  rheumy  eyes,  and  slowly, 
and  with  a  doubting  reverence,  approached  the  bed, 
when  the  wasted  and  sharp  outline  of  the  features, 
with  the  unopening  eyes  and  still  bosom,  impressed 
upon  the  wretched  man  that  he  stood  in  the  presence 


14  THE    PORTRAIT. 

of  his  dead  wife.  When  that  idea  had  fully  mastered 
him,  —  "I  say,  Fred,  when  d' this  yer'appen?"  in  a 
low,  hollow  whisper. 

"Last  night,"  said  Fred,  giving  way,  in  sobs  of  boy 
ish  agon}-,  for  the  first  time. 

John,  who  had  tumbled  out  of  his  nest  of  reeking 
rags,  came  toddling  to  the  bedside.  "  Ma  !  ma  !  ma  !  " 
in  his  piping  wail.  So  the  three  miserable  beings  — 
the  unknowing  John,  the  just  comprehending,  sobering 
father,  ready  to  fight  or  cry,  as  a  feather  might  incline, 
and  the  utterly  overcome  older  child,  severed  from  tin 
world  by  their  poverty,  squalor  and  wretchedness  — 
united  in  their  abandoned  and  desolate  cries  over  the 
finally  extinguished  spark  that  had  shed  a  ray  of 
warmth  upon  them,  —  the  broken  band  that  had  feebly 
united  them  to  home  and  a  bare  existence. 

Their  grief  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  the 
neighbor  below,  who,  although  poor,  had  occasionally 
looked  upon  them  with  a  cheery  face  and  a  little  help, 
and  who  remembered  that  he  had  seen  none  of  them 
for  two  or  three  days.  Surprised  and  shocked,  lie 
aroused  the  now  nearly  sobered  man,  and  hurried  him 
off  to  call  the  neighbors  to  his  assistance,  while  he 
helped  to  huddle  the  scanty  clothes  upon  the  children, 
intending  to  take  them  to  his  house,  a  half  mile  below. 
Fred  refused  to  leave  his  mother  alone,  and  when  in 
duced  to  go,  he  wet  and  replaced  the  cloth  over  her 
face  ;  and  the  wondering  neighbor,  acting  upon  the  sug 
gestion,  drew  the  soiled  sheet  over  the  woman's  head, 
and  hurried  the  children  away. 


CHAPTER    III. 

ALONE. 

ON  the  second  day  after  her  death,  the  remains  of 
the  poor  woman  were  put  away,  with  decent  ami 
tender  respect.  In  that  far-off  time,  of  log-cabins, 
scattered  along  the  rough  highwa3*s,  of  small,  rude, 
stumpy  fields,  of  ox-sleds  and  heavy  carts,  of  coarse 
fare,  of  flax  breaks,  hatchels,  spinning-wheels,  hand- 
looms,  and  fulling  mills  ;  of  tow  cloth  for  summer,  and 
butternut  fulled  cloth  for  winter ;  of  cow-hide  boots 
and  fox-skin  caps,  —  the  "  forehanded  "  were  not  much 
better  off  than  the  poor.  A  community  of  fortune  and 
interest,  a  common  struggle  for  subsistence  with  the 
rugged  stubbornness  of  even  a  kindly  nature  in  the 
wilderness,  when  the  coming  of  a  new  settler  was  an 
event  of  public  importance,  and  the  raising  of  a  log- 
house  a  sort  of  holiday,  forbade  much  real  suffering,, 
and  toil-roughened  hands  were  ready  to  do  the  needed 
kindness  to  the  unfortunate  and  afflicted. 

The  actual  condition  of  the  Wardens,  made  known 
at  the  death  of  the  poor  woman,  was  a  surprise,  and 
created  almost  a  horror.  What  could  now  be  done, 
was  done  for  them.  A  coffin  was  prepared,  a  preacher 
was  procured,  and  a  large  concourse  assembled  from 
(15) 


16  THE    PORTRAIT. 

the  nearest  settlements  ;  a  very  respectable  procession 
followed  the  remains,  borne  by  the  men,  to  their  quiet 
resting-place. 

Warden,  sobered  and  decent,  Fred,  with  an  extem 
porized  suit  and  cow-hide  shoes,  and  little  Johmry.  with 
his  clarified  face  and  combed  hair,  led  between  hi? 
father  and  elder  brother,  as  the  sole  mourners,  were 
the  objects  of  much  comment  and  commiseration. 

Fred,  who  went  about  in  a  benumbed  and  dazed  sort 
of  a  way,  came  in  for  the  largest  share  of  notice. 
Living  in  the  woods  with  his  mother,  and  seldom  asso 
ciating  with  other  boys,  and  tall  for  his  age,  his  man 
ner  was  shy  ;  and,  accustomed  to  the  solitude  of  the 
forest,  and  loneliness  of  the  river,  he  was  growing  up 
thoughtful  and  taciturn.  As  well  as  he  was  capable,  lie 
had  turned  over  in  his  mind  the  words  of  the  dying 
woman,  that  she  was  not  his  mother.  He  remembered 
to  have  heard  it  said  that  persons,  when  dying,  were 
often  out  of  their  heads,  and  he  thought  that  these 
disturbing  words  might  have  been  spoken  in  that  con 
dition  ;  so  he  went  over  and  over  with  this  subject, 
and  then  tried  to  think  of  what  was  going  on  around 
him. 

As  a  group  of  women  stood  a  little  apart,  looking  at 
the  filling  of  the  grave, —  "  Did  you  ever  hear  o'  such 
a  thing  ?  Old  Mis  Pettibone  said  that  he  went  mor'n 
twenty  mile  for  the  doctor,  and  got  back  jest  'afore  his 
mother  died,  and  he'n  the  baby's  there  all  livin'  alone 
at  the  time ;  an'  that  he  must  a  closed  'er  eyes,  an'  put 
a  wet  cloth  on  'er  face,  and  him  not  mor'n  'levin  year 
old ! " 

"  Not  mor'n  nine,"   was    the   answer.     "  His    folks 


ALONE.  17 

came  here  'bout  six  .year  ago ;  and  Mis  Warden  told 
Mis  Jones  that  Fred  was  three  year  old,  then." 

"  Du  tell !  "  and  the  low-voiced  women  relapsed  into 
admiring  silence,  as  they  intently  watched  the  uncon 
scious  boy,  now  as  impassive  in  his  grief  as  a  young 
Indian. 

"  What  a  time  she  must  a'  had,  all  her  life.  Sam 
allers  awa}T,  an'  when  to  hum  never  sober,  and  never 
doin'  nothin',  and  Mis  Blair  said  there  warn't  a  blessed 
thing  in  the  house,  but  a  little  must}'  meal ;  an'  how  on 
airth  them  children  lived,  mortal  sakes  only  knows." 

The  grave  was  filled,  and  the  broken  turf  replaced, 
the  simple  ceremony  ended,  and  the  saddened  neigh 
bors  dispersed  homeward.  At  the  entrance  to  the 
bury  ing-place,  a  kind  woman,  who  had  taken  charge 
of  little  Johnny,  resumed  possession  of  him,  and 
placing  him  in  the  box  of  a  lumber  wagon,  drove 
away  ;  while  Fred,  who  relinquished  his  hand,  stood 
with  his  great,  innocent,  tender  eyes,  full  of  mute  sad 
ness,  staring  after  him,  and  thought,  for  the  moment, 
that  he  must  turn  back  in  the  twilight,  and  go  alone  to 
the  deserted  hut  by  the  river  ;  then  he  turned  again,  as 
if  undecided,  to  the  fresh  mound  of  broken  earth  that 
hid  his  mother.  At  this  moment,  a  man  who  had 
attentively  and  kindly  observed  him  approached,  and 
holding  out  his  hand,  —  "You  are  going  home  with 
me  to-night,"  he  said,  speaking  in  a  voice  so  gentle 
and  tender,  that  the  poor  child  looked  up  in  wonder. 
The  face  was  a  good,  strong,  homely,  maul}-  face,  now 
all  aglow  with  a  tender  smile,  and  with  moisture  in  the 
kindly  gray  eyes. 

Fred  had  never  met  such  a  look  before,  and  at  once 
2 


18  THE    PORTRAIT. 

held  out  both  his  hands  to  his  new  friend.  As  they 
turned  into  the  highway,  another  younger,  slender, 
thin-faced,  but  kindly  man,  joined  them,  and  took 
Fred's  other  hand,  which  he  held  with  a  grasp  almost 
painful.  Thus  between  them  they  led  him  eastward. 
to  the  Maryfield  Corners,  and  so  north  on  the  state 
road,  along  which  the}T  proceeded  for  a  half  mile,  and 
then  turned  off  to  the  east. 

"I  understand,"  said  the  younger  man,  as  they 
walked  along,  "  that  this  young  man  is  quite  a  trapper, 
and  I  don't  know  but  a  hunter  also." 

"Indeed!  Is  this  the  boy  that  caught  the  otter? 
How  was  that  ?  Is  your  name  Jake  ? "  asked  the 
elder. 

"  Fred,"  was  the  answer. 

"  How  was  it  about  the  otter?  "     No  answer. 

"Uncle  Bill  asks  you  about  catching  an  otter,"  said 
the  younger,  kindly. 

"  The  otter?  Oh  !  "  as  if  awakening,  "  he  broke  the 
trap  and  got  awa}*."  It  was  evident  that  his  though'ts 
were  elsewhere. 

" Poor  boy  !  "  said  Uncle  Bill ;  "he  is  overcome  and 
worn  out;  sha'n't  I  carry  you?"  very  kindly.  "You 
are  not  so  heavy  as  a  buck." 

"  Oh,  I  can  walk  !  "  cried  the  boy,  aroused  pr.rtly 
by  the  unwonted  kindness  of  their  voices,  and  as  much 
by  a  wish  to  appear  manly.  Not  man}'  rods  east  of 
the  state  road,  they  reached  Uncle  Bill's  residence,  one 
of  the  few  framed  houses  that  then  indicated  one  of 
the  better-to-do.  The  younger  of  the  two  men  left 
them  at  the  gate,  and  Fred  was  tenderly  received  by  a 
kind,  matronly  woman,  Avho,  with  a  young  man  aud  a 


ALONE.  19 

boy,  about  Fred's  age,  constituted  the  household. 
Fred  seemed  to  have  been  expected,  and  he  was  soon 
seated  with  his  kind  host  at  a  table  covered  03*  a  clean 
white  cloth,  and  with  more  and  better  dishes  than  he 
could  remember  ever  to  have  seen.  A  tender,  smoking 
venison  steak  was  placed  before  him ;  and  when  his 
supper  was  finished,  with  a  bowl  of  milk,  he  was  taken 
into  the  best  room,  more  sumptuously  furnished  than 
he  had  dreamed  of,  and  sank,  wonderingly,  into  the 
bed,  and  into  a  slumber  deeper  than  dreams,  and 
longer  than  the  night. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

WHAT    WAS    SAID    ABOUT    IT. 

T  ATE  in  the  evening,  at  the  new  yellow  store  at  th9 
J— J  Corners,  several  men  dropped  in, —  Uncle  Bill  Skin 
ner  and  Fenton,  just  mentioned  ;  Sim  Sheldon,  from 
the  Carman  neighborhood,  and  others  ;  and  naturally 
the  talk  turned  upon  the  funeral  and  the  Wardens. 

"  Brother  James  had  rather  a  tight  fit  to  bring  'er  in, 
eh  —  Uncle  Bill?"  asked  one. 

"  Rather.  He  left  it  a  leetle  in  doubt,  whether  tho 
water  had  been  efficaciously  applied,  —  so  that  if  Elder 
Rider  should  happen  to  be  there  when  she  arrives,  h<3 
will  make  a  point  against  the  poor  thing.  Yon  seo 
the}'  don't  hold  just  alike,  on  all  the  vital  points." 

"  I  think,"  said  Fenton,  with  the  broad  accent  of  hu 
Irish  origin,  "  that  if  brother  James  should  put  in  Sam 
by  way  of  mitigation  of  damages,  as  the  lawyers  call 
it,  he'd  carry  his  case." 

"  Sam's  not  a  bad  fellow  nat'ralby,"  said  another. 

"He  was  anything  but  a  good  husband,"  rejoined 
Fenton,  with  warmth,  u  to  leave  that  poor  woman  to  die 
alone  with  those  starving  children  Free  as  grace  is 
during  a  revival,  none  was  ever  wasted  on  him.  Why, 
in  that  old  hovel  there  warn't  enough  to  draw  a 
mouse,  —  the  flies  had  deserted  it." 
(20) 


WHAT   WAS    SAID    ABOUT   IT.  21 

"  Where  do  3*6  s'pose  Sam  is  to-night  ?  "  asked  one. 

"  Down  at  Green's,  drinking  that  stuff,  —  one  drop  of 
which  will  kill  sixteen  old  rats,"  answered  Fenton. 
"  He  loafed  off  that  way,  from  his  wife's  grave." 

"  There  ought  to  be  something  done  to  break  up  that 
place,"  said  Shelden. 

"What  can  be  done?"  asked  Uncle  Bill.  "He's 
rich  and  cunnin',  and  sly  and  shrewd,  and  deep  and 
still." 

"  Yes,  he  'stils  and  brews  too,  and  has  a  devil 
of  a  gang  about  him,  and  will  meet  you  all  the  time  as 
smooth,  and  plausible,  and  polite,  and  soft  as  a  basket 
of  chips,"  said  another. 

"Where  did  he  come  from?"  asked  Shelden,  "and 
how  did  he  make  his  money  ?  " 

"  The  devil  only  knows,"  answered  Fenton.  "  He  came 
from  the  South  somewhere.  He  brought  up  a  good 
team,  looked  coarse  and  rough,  can't  read  or  write, 
as  you  know,  rented  the  old_  tavern  stand  over  there, 
and  then  bought  it,  and  bought  other  land  ;  brought 
a  deed  for  a  good  deal  with  him,  and  has  slipt  and  slid, 
and  worried  and  wriggled  along,  nobody  can  tell  how, 
till  I  heard  Squire  Poster  sa}'  he  was  the  richest  man 
in  Portage  County." 

"  Did  Warden  come  with  him?  " 

"  No,  I  think  he  came  a  few  months  later,"  said  Un 
cle  Bill.  "  There  must  be  some  sort  of  relation  or  con 
nection  between  them  ;  for  Sam  built  that  shanty  over 
across  the  river  on  Green's  land,  and  Green's  sister 
used  to  go  over  there  once  in  a  while.  I  never  knew 
much  about  'em." 

"  No  wonder  Green's  wife  died,"  remarked  Fenton  ; 


22  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"  such  a  husband,  or  such  a  sou  as  Jake,  would  either 
be  too  much  for  any  woman,  and  no  one  could  stand 
both." 

"  I  never  heai'd  anything  specific  against  Green,"  said 
Sheldcn,  "  except  that  he  has  a  gang  about  him." 

"  No,  nor  I,"  said  Uncle  Bill ;  "  but  the  atmosphere 
is  bad  about  him  ;  you  don't  feel  easy  in  his  presence  ; 
and  if  he  laughs,  nobody  laughs  with  him  ;  such  men 
ain't  healthy." 

"What  will  become  of  the  children?"  asked  Shel 
don.  "  There's  two  or  three,  ain't  there?  " 

"  One  died  a  j-ear  or  two  ago,"  said  Fenton.  "  Mrs. 
Jones  has  taken  the  youngest,  and  the  oldest  is  at  Mr. 
Skinner's." 

"Do  3-011  know,  Fenton,"  said  the  latter,  "that  as  I 
sat  lookin'  at  'em  this  afternoon,  Sam,  with  his  florid, 
bloated  face,  and  red  cj-es,  and  the  freckled,  round- 
faced,  tow-headed  little  one,  and  remembered  the  pale, 
flaxen-haired  mother,  and  then  looked  at  Fred,  tall  and 
dark,  with  his  splendid  eyes  and  well-cut  features,  it 
'peared  to  me  that  he  belonged  to  another  race?" 

"  Of  course  he  does,"  said  Fenton,  decidedly  ;  "  there's 
blood  and  race  in  that  boy,  you  ma}-  depend  upon  that ; 
you  can  see  it  in  his  motions.  Row  Lewis  said  that 
he  treed  a  wild  cat,  off  in  back  of  Sam's  house,  about  a 
month  ago,  and  got  a  ball  stuck  in  his  rifle,  and  that 
this  boy  came  to  him,  and  staid,  and  watched  the  cat 
till  he  went  down  to  Giles's  shop,  and  fixed  the  gun, 
and  went  back  and  shot  it.  He  said  the  boy  never 
thought  of  being  afraid  of  it." 

"  How  old  is  he?"  asked  Shelden. 


WHAT    WAS    SAID    ABOUT    IT.  23 

"  I  can't  toll,"  said  Uncle  Bill ;  "  nine  or  ten  or 
'levcn  —  maybe  twelve." 

"What  will  become  of  him?"  asked  the  practical 
Sheldcn. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I  was  so  taken  with  him  this  after 
noon,  that  I  told  Sam  I  would  take  him  home  with  me, 
till  he  could  see  what  he  could  do." 

"  You'd  better  keep  him,"  said  Fenton,  decidedly. 

"I  would,  willingly,"  said  Uncle  Bill,  "if  his  father 
would  let  me  have  him.  The  notion  has  somehow  got 
into  my  head,"  lowering  his  voice,  "that  Green  is  in 
some  way  interested  in  this  boy." 

The  three  men  looked  silently  at  each  other  for  a 
moment,  and  Shelden  gave  a  low  whistle. 

"The  devil!"  exclaimed  Fenton  ;  "the  boy  is  no 
more  like  Green  than  a  young  eagle  is  like  a  thieving 
old  owl." 

"There  are  other  things  besides  blood.  We  shall 
see,"  quietly  replied  Uncle  Bill. 


CHAPTER    V. 

GREEN'S  TAVERN  AND  ITS  LANDLORD. 

~TUST  below,  on  the  south-east  corner,  fronting  on 
tJ  the  State  Road,  stood  Green's  Hotel,  an  extensive 
rambling  collection  of  buildings,  composed  partly  of 
hewed  or  squared  log's,  partly  of  round  logs,  and  to 
which  had  been  added,  within  three  or  four  years,  a  new, 
and,  for  the  time,  spacious  two  story  framed  building, 
neatly  finished  and  painted.  Near  these  were  extensive 
sheds,  and  partly  in  the  rear,  roomy,  well-built  barns 
and  stables.  The  whole  place  bore  the  appearance  of 
being  much  frequented.  The  bar-room  was  in  the  block 
part,  —  a  large,  low,  and  unattractive  room  ;  and  on  the 
night  after  the  funeral  it  was  dimly  lighted,  and  deserted 
by  its  usual  frequenters. 

In  an  inner  room,  also  dimly  lighted,  was  the  pro 
prietor,  a  tall,  muscular,  heavy  built,  heavy  shouldered, 
heavy  headed,  heavy  browed,  rough  featured  man, 
his  small,  quick,  deep  set,  hard,  round  blue  eyes 
peering  stealthity  out  from  his  overhanging  ej-ebrows, 
with  florid  face,  and  scanty  light  hair.  Although  a 
heavy  man,  he  was  walking  up  and  down  the  room  with 
a  light  feline  step,  and  occasionally  dropping  his  head 
on  one  side,  as  if  to  listen  for  his  own  foot-fall,  or  to 
see  if^he  could  hear  what  his  thoughts  were. 
(24) 


GREEN S  TAVERN  AND  ITS  LANDLORD.       25 

He  was  not  alone  ;  near  a  table  at  one  end  of  the 
room  sat  Sam  Warden,  silent,  dogged  and  defiant;  — 
sober  now,  the  wretched  man  seemed  to  have  been 
surveying  the  abyss,  at  whose  bottom  he  found  him 
self,  under  conditions  that  enabled  him  to  comprehend 
its  depth  and  hopelessness.  His  eyes  were  on  the  floor, 
with  the  sullen  look  of  a  man  broken,  exhausted,  and 
hunted  down,  who  hoped  nothing,  looked  for  nothing, 
and  feared  nothing. 

The  men  had  evident!}*  conferred  and  disagreed. 

"  Sam,"  said  Green,  gliding  up  to  him  like  a  serpent, 
and  laying  his  hand  upon  him  like  a  feather,  and  breath 
ing  his  name  in  a  voice  that  he  intended  not  to  hear 
himself,  while  his  quick  eye  stole  stealthily  about  to 
detect  any  listening  shadow,  —  "  Sam  !  " 

"  What  ?"  said  Sam,  in  a  rough,  hoarse  voice. 

"  'Ush-h-h-h  ! "  with  a  deprecating  wave  of  his  hand, 
as  if  urging  the  shadows  to  withdraw,  "  they'll  hear  ye." 

"  Who  the  devil  cares  !  " 

"  Sam  !  "  with  seduction  in  his  breath  ;  "  Sam,  take  a 
little  sothin',"  holding  up  to  the  light  a  bottle  of  spirits. 
"It's  brand}' — rale  fourth-proof — try  a  little?" 

"  Not  a  dam  drop  !  "  sulkily. 

"  Sam,  what  d'ye  want?  tell  a  feller." 

"  Not  a  dam  thing." 

"Remember,  Sam — " 

"I  do  remember." 

"What  d'ye  remember?"  with  a  voice  of  thunder, 
and  a  stamp  that  shook  the  house;  "what  d'ye  re 
member,  ye  mis'ablc  whiskcy-suckin'  cuss !  ye  poor 
bloated  porpant !  " 

"  Porpant !  who' made  me  a  porpant?"  springing  up, 


26  THE    PORTRAIT. 

and  confronting  the  enraged  landlord  with  a  stolid  look 
of  defiance. 

With  a  gasp,  half  a  hoarse  bark,  lost  in  an  angry 
growl,  the  furious  Green,  with  livid  face  and  eyes  burn 
ing  with  murder,  grasped  the  miserable  and  helpless 
Sam  by  the  throat,  with  the  strangling  hands  of  speedy 
death,  and  literally  lifting  him  from  his  feet,  shook  him 
as  if  he  had  been  a  figure  of  cork,  and  threw  him  help 
lessly  several  feet  upon  the  floor. 

"Uncle  —  Uncle  Jarvis,"  feebly  moaned  the  subdued 
wretch.  With  a  single  step  Green  stood  over  him,  and 
hissed",  "  Say  Uncle  Jarvis  again  while  }Te  live,  an' 
I  '11  murder  ye  !  "  And  turned  to  confront  the  shadows. 

The  cowering  wretch  lay  dumb  and  trembling  on  the 
floor,  when  Green,  bringing  a  glass  of  brandy  from  the 
table,  lifted  his  head  up. 

"  'Ere,  drink  this  !  "  The  poor  wretch  swallowed  a 
little,  which  his  stomach  immediately  rejected.  Again 
and  again  the  dose  was  repeated,  until  the  liquor  was 
retained. 

"  Get  up,"  said  Green,  "  and  sit  down  like  a  reason- 
'ble  man." 

"Why 're  ye  so  'ard  on  a  feller!."  whined  the  some 
what  recovered  Sam.  "What  d'ye  want,  anyway? 
What  '11  ye  do  with  'im  ?  " 

"  What  business 's  that  o'  yourn  ?  as  his  father,  ye  s'll 
bind  'im  to  me.  'E  s'll  work  in  the  stable,  pick  up 
chips,  black  boots,  an'  ihebby  drive  stage.  What's  that 
to  ye  ?  " 

"  Ye  know  that  she  that's  dead,  poor  Betsey,  liked 
'im,  an'  'e  put  a  wet  cloth  on  'er  dead  face, —  I  seed 
'im,"  and  the  poor  creature  broke  down. 


GREEN'S  TAVERN  AND  ITS  LANDLORD.  27 

"  Come,  come,  Sam  !  "  with  his  old  gammoning  way, 
and  waving  off  a  shadow,  "  don't  be  a  fool ;  take 
another  drink,  an'  be  a  man  ;  put  a  wet  tow'l  'round 
that  neck  o'  yers,  so  that  yer  lickcr  '11  do  ye  good  in  the 
mornin'." 

"  There's  sothin'  in  that  bo}'  oncommon,"  said  Sam, 
preparing  to  go.  "The  mornin' after  Betsey  died,  he 
pushed  me  from  the  bed,  an'  thai-  was  sothin'  in  'is  eyes, 
that  —  that  — " 

"  That  what,  you  fool?  "  looking  about,  a  little  fearful 
of  eavesdroppers. 

"  That  made  me  kind  o'  — ." 

"  Shet  up,  will  ye  !  "  with  a  backward,  deprecating 
motion  of  his  hand  ;  and  then,  with  the  old  wheedle, 
"  Come,  come,  Sam,  yc  ain't  yerself  to-night ;  ye  '11  be 
better  in  the  mornin',"  looking  around  to  see  that  the 
way  was  clear. 

As  Sam  was  about  to  go,  "  Say  !  "  said  Green,  and 
coming  up  with  the  old  noisless  tread,  with  the  wave 
at  the  shadows,  and  putting  his  lips  to  Sam's  ear, 
"D'ye  s'pose  she  tole  'iin  any  thin'?" 

"Who  tole  — what? 

With  another  look  around,  "Betsey  —  Fred?" 

"'Ow  could  she?" 

"If  she  did,  I'll— " 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LAUNCHED   UPON   THE    STREAM. 

E  day  after  the  funeral  Fred  went  down  by  the 
J-  grave  of  his  mother,  and  out  across  to  Jones's,  to 
see  Johnny,  and  then  down  across  the  river  at  Atwater's  ; 
then,  turning  up  the  southern  bank,  went  back  to  the 
little  desolate  hut,  —  the  only  home  he  had  any  mem 
ory  of.  It  was  very  lonely  and  silent  in  the  Indian 
summer  sunshine.  The  door  stood  open,  and,  as  he 
entered,  he  was  surprised  to  find  it  stripped  and  empty 
of  the  poor  and  scanty  things  it  had  once  contained. 
The  hearth  was  cold,  with  the  extinguished  brands 
and  dead  ashes  lying  upon  it.  A  few  tattered  rags,  a 
broken  chair  and  stool,  and  a  few  fractured  earthen 
vessels,  amid  straw  and  dust,  were  all  that  remained 
within.  How  coldly  and  dumbly  it  all  smote  upon  the 
childish  heart  of  the  boy  who  had  been  so  sorely  tried, 
and  was  so  incapable  of  understanding  his  own  emo 
tions  !  The  air  and  silence  oppressed,  almost  suffocated 
him.  He  turned  out,  and,  as  he  went,  he  closed  the 
door  and  latched  it  instinctively,  as  if  to  shut  in  the 
impressions  that  had  so  smitten  him.  How  still  and 
lonely  everything  lay  in  the  warm  sun  outside  !  Fred 
looked  about  him,  and  went  with  a  saddened  face  to 
the  side  of  the  river  where  his  little  canoe  still  lloated ; 
(28) 


LAUNCHED    UPON    THE    STREAM.  29 

he  thought  of  his  two  or  three  traps,  set  above,  but 
somehow  he  did  not  cure  for  them  ;  and  carefully  bal 
ing  the  water  from  his  boat,  he  loosed  its  fastening, 
and  with  his  little  paddle  pulled  himself  across  to  the 
other  bank.  Here  he  landed  ;  and  pushing  his  boat  out 
again  into  the  rapid  current,  bow  down  stream,  he 
abandoned  it  to  its  fate.  As  the  mid-current  took  it, 
it  shot  around  a  turn,  and  Fred  sprang  up  the  bank 
just  in  time  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  it,  through  an  open 
ing,  as  it  was  swept  forever  from  his  sight.  He  looked 
•where  it  had  disappeared,  and  turned  for  a  moment  to 
the  deserted  cabin  ;  then,  with  sobs  of  pain,  he  passed 
into  the  woods  with  an  instinctive  but  incomprehcnsive 
feeling  that  he  was  entering  upon  a  new  phase  of  life. 

His  new  friends,  in  their  kindness,  were  concerned 
at  his  day's  absence,  and  greatly  relieved  upon  his 
return.  They  found  him  a  p\easant,  cheerful  boj^ 
apparently  observing,  and  much  interested  in  books, 
•who  modestly  answered  all  questions,  though  disin 
clined  to  talk  much,  and  especially  about  his  father 
and  mother. 

The  next  morning  his  father  called  for  him,  and  said 
that  he  was  to  go  with  him  down  to  Green's.  Without 
reply  or  question,  Fred  took  his  hat  to  accompany 
him.  With  a  word  to  his  wife,  Uncle  Bill  said  to  Sam 
that  he  would  go  with  him. 

On  their  arrival  at  the  hotel  they  found  the  proprietor 
in  the  bar-room,  whom  Uncle  Bill  approached  at  once. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Green." 

*'  Good  mornin',  good  mornin',  Misto  Skinner,"  in 
soft  voice,  uud  with  a  very  polite  and  not  ungraceful 


30  THE    PORTRAIT. 

bow.     "  I  hope  yer  well ;  and  how's  yer  lady  —  an'  the 
young  gents,  this  mornin'?" 

"  Very  well,"  indifferently.  "  Mr.  Green  —  "  At  the 
business  address,  the  landlord  stepped  quickty  and 
stealthily  forward,  with  a  wave  of  his  hand  to  a  group 
in  a  remote  part  of  the  room,  as  well  as  the  world  gen 
erally,  by  way  of  warning  not  to  interfere. 

"  You  wish  to  speak  to  me?  "  in  a  low  voice. 

"  A  moment,  if  you  please."  "Without  further  words 
he  was  conducted  politely  and  obsequiously  into  the 
room  where  the  interview  with  Sam  Warden  had  oc 
curred. 

"Be  seated  ;  take  a  cheer,  I  beg  ye." 

"  No  matter  —  about  this  boy,  this  Fred  ? —  " 

"What  about  him?"  with  a  glance  and  a  warning 
sweep  of  the  hand.  He  bent  low,  and  his  voice  sunk 
to  an  anxious  whisper,  -as  he  asked  : 

"  I  feel  an  interest  in  him,  and  want  to  know  what  is 
to  become  of  him,"  with  a  straightforward  look  into  the 
keen  and  tremulous  eyes  of  the  landlord. 

A  quick  flash  out  to  the  right  and  left,  with  a  slight 
twitch  of  the  muscles  at  the  corners  of  the  eyes,  and  a 
backward  wave. 

"  Wery  kind  o'  yc  ;  wery,  wery  kind  o'  ye  ;  the  poor 
boy  needs  frins,"  with  a  tremor  in  his  voice,  and  a 
movement  of  the  eyelids,  as  if  to  suppress  a  sudden 
revolt  of  the  feelings.  "  'Ad  I  knowcl,  I'd  a'  talked 
with  ye  ;  but  Sam  cum  to  me  and  wanted  me  to  take 
'im,  an'  though  'taint  the  best  place  for  'im,  I  con 
sented,  an'  he  made  this  paper,"  drawing  a  folded 
writing  from  a  capacious  leather  pocket-book,  carried 
in  an  inside  pocket,  which  he  handed  to  his  visitor. 


LAUNCHED    UPON    THE    STREAM.  31 

"  I  thought  best  to  'are  it  in  black  an'  white." 

Mr.  Skinner  saw  endorsed  on  the  back  of  it  the  omi 
nous  word  "Indenture,"  and  below  it,  "Recorded  in 
the  records  of  Mantua  Township,  this  10th  day  of 
November,  1829."  Opening  it,  he  found  it  pursued 
the  prescribed  formula  of  binding  a  minor.  He  ran 
his  eye  on  down,  —  "  until  he  is  of  the  age  of  twenty- 
one  years";  "not  less  than  three  months'  schooling 
each  year  until  the  age  of  eighteen";  "to  be  taught 
so  much  of  arithmetic  as  includes  the  Rule  of  Three," — 
which  requirement  had  been  placed  in  the  Ohio  Statutes 
by  the  Yankees  of  the  Reserve.  The  indenture  also 
provided,  that  on  his  reaching  said  age  of  twenty-one 
years,  "that  Green  should  pay  him,  the  said  Frederick 
Warden,  the  full  sum  of  one  hundred  dollars  current 
money,  and  furnish  him  with  one  good  freedom  suit  of 
fulled  cloth."  Signed,  Samuel  Warden  (his  x  mark), 
and  acknowledged  and  witnessed  as  the  law  directs. 
Uncle  Bill's  eye  ran  back  to  the  descriptive  parts, — 
"Frederick  Warden,  aged  about  ten  years,  born  near 
Danville,  Ky.,  May  15th,  1819." 

While  Uncle  Bill  was  carefully  studying  this  paper, 
Green,  at  times,  threw  his  whole  force  into  a  look  and 
attitude  of  the  most  intense  interest,  with  an  occasional 
glance  and  gesture  to  imaginary  spectators  not  to  inter 
fere  ;  that  it  should  be  all  right ;  and  occasionally  he 
would  incline  an  ear,  as  if  trying  to  hear  what  the  silent 
reader  and  cogitator  thought  about  it. 

"  Three  months'  schooling  each  year,"  said  Uncle  Bill, 
with  his  full  voice,  "  until  the  age  of  eighteen  years," 
and  thus  repeated  several  other  provisions  of  the 
paper. 


32  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"Square  Lyman  —  Lawyer  Lyinan  of  Ravenna  — 
drawn  it,"  remarked  Green,  by  way  of  assurance  of 
its  correctness. 

"  The  paper's  all  right,"  said  Uncle  Bill,  coldly, 
handing  it  back. 

"  Does  the  boy  know  of  it?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  s'pose  Sam's  told  'im  ;  no  matter,  'c'll  find  it  out 
as  —  " 

"  Soon's  he'll  want  to  know  it,"  interrupted  Uncle 
Bill,  regardlesss  of  the  deprecating  gesture  of  the  land 
lord. 

"  Call  'im  in,"  said  Uncle  Bill. 

With  a  deprecatory  gesture  to  the  imaginary  specta 
tors,  as  if  to  say,  "  I'll  do  it,  and  save  all  hard  feeling," 
the  landlord  stole  out  of  the  room,  and  a  moment  after 
stole  in,  followed  by  the  wide-eyed,  wondering  boy. 

"  Ef  I  may  be  so  bold  "  —  with  great  suavity,  that 
had  a  little  ring  of  self-assertion  in  the  tone  —  said 
Green,  "  I'm  the  boy's  master.  You'll  rec'lect,  pleas'." 

"  Master  ain't  a  good  word  up  here,"  said  Uncle  Bill, 
"and  3'ou'll  recollect  that  I'm  one  of  the  '  Selectmen' 
of  Mantua  Township,  and  live  about  a  mile  from  here," 
with  a  look  that  took  nothing  from  the  remark. 

"  Freddy,"  he  continued  to  the  boy,  "  your  father 
has  placed  you  with  Mr.  Green  to  live.  You'll  be  a 
good  boy,  do  whatever  he  tells  you,  and  he'll  be  kind 
to  .you.  You'll  let  him  come  and  see  us  occasionally," 
—  to  Green.  "  Good-b}',  Freddy.  Good  morning,  Mr. 
Green."  Turning  hastily  away,  Uncle  Bill  walked  rap 
idly  out  of  the  house,  and,  with  a  saddened  face,  away 
from  it. 

"Freddy,"  said  Green  to  the  boy,  who  stood  with  his 


LAUNCHED    UPON    THE    STREAM.  33 

eyes  ,staring  hard  at  the  door,  through  which  his  friend 
had  departed,  with  an  expression  like  that  with  which 
he  saw  his  canoe  disappear  ;  "  Freddj-  "  —  and  the  voice 
was  soft  and  winning  —  "ye  was  alone  with  yer  ma 
when  she  died  ?  " 

The  boy  looked  wonderingly  at  his  questioner,  and 
moved  a  little  from  him.  "  Yer's  alone  with  'er,  yer 
fa}'ther  says." 

"  Yes  sir,  —  Johnny  and  I." 

"Did  she  say  anythin'  to  }Ter?  leave  any  word, 
anythin'  about  yerself,  or  Johnny,  or  yer  pa?"  Fred 
still  stared  at  him  with  wonder  in  his  wide,  innocent 
eyes,  and  without  winking,  until  tears  came  into  them, 
and  ran  over  their  lids.  "  Nothin',  nothin',  Freddy  ? 
We'll  go  out  now,  and  look  about."  An  impatient  ges 
ture  might  have  notified  the  observant  shadows  that  it 
was  not  altogether  right. 

The  place  was  not  new  to  Fred.  He  had  been  there, 
but  not  often.  Once  or  twice  he  had  come  to  look  for 
his  father,  and  a  few  times  to  get  a  small  wooden  bot 
tle  replenished. 

As  he  went  out  through  the  bar-room,  he  hurried  and 
made  a  sweep  around  a  group  at  the  bar,  behind  which 
stood  Jake,  with  his  hard,  freckled,  repulsive  face. 
'"Ere,  Fred,  take  this  pitcher,  an'  bring  some  fresh 
water  ;  ye'll  'ave  ter  work  'ere.  I'll  put  ye  through. 
Do  ye  'ear  ?  "  As  the  boy  wonderingly  took  the  pitcher, 
and  went  out,  Jake  added  :  "  If  the  ole  man  means  ter 
'ave  that  little  cuss  lazin'  round,  fishin'  an'  trappin',  he'll 
find  himself  damly  mistaken.  I'll  make  him  'ump." 
Just  then  Fred  came  in,  and  placed  the  heavy  pitcher 
3 


34  THE    PORTRAIT. 

on  the  bar.     "  There  now,"  cried  Jake,  "  go'n  bring  in 
some  wood,  an'  I'll  tell  ye  what  ter  do  next." 

''You'd ,  better  take  care,"  said  Israel  Patterson, 
jnst  drunk  enough  to  be  independent,  "  he  won't  stand 
much." 

"What  dam  business  's  that  o'  yourn?  Drink  ycr 
licker,  an  shct  up,  or  I'll  — 

The  landlord  had  stolen  in,  and  his  quick  glance  de 
tecting  none  but  the  ordinary  tipplers,  —  "Jake  !  "  with 
a  voice  which  made  the  decanters  start  on  the  shelves, 
and  under  which  that  youth  sunk  to  sullen  silence. 
When  Fred  came  in  with  the  wood  he  gave  him  a 
quarter,  and  told  him  to  go  over  to  the  store  and  buy  a 
paper  of  tobacco,  and  when  he  returned  with  the  change, 
told  him  to  keep  it.  The  boy  looked  up  wondering!}*, 
but  laid  the  money  down  on  the  bar,  and  walked 
away  in  silence. 

"  Wai,  if  that  don't  beat  the  devil !  "  exclaimed 
Jake,  and  all  turned  in  surprise  at  him.  As  he  walked 
away  the  landlord  repeated  his  gesture  of  uncertainty 
and  warning.  "  'E'll  larn  better'n  that,"  he  said. 

From  the  solitary  life  of  his  childhood,  in  the  woods 
by  the  river,  to  that  of  bo\*  of  all  work  in  the  stable 
and  kitchen  of  a  much  frequented  country  tavern,  was  a 
great  change  ;  and  Fred  made  it,  and  adapted  himself  to 
his  new  situation,  with  the  plastic  readiness  of  the  young 
backwoods  bo}*.  Whatever  ulterior  views  Green  may 
have  had  in  seeking  the  control  of  the  boy,  he  evidently, 
at  first,  sought  to  gain  his  confidence  and  good-will ; 
and  although  he  did  not  spare  him  from  the  ceaseless 
round  of  chores,  his  manner  was  not  unkind,  and  he 
often,  in  his  stealth}*,  confidential  way,  seemed  anxious 


LAUNCHED    UPON    THE    STREAM.  35 

to  penetrate  and  mould  the  boy's  inner  thought  and  na 
ture.  At  such  times  Fred  would  turn  upon  him  with 
his  wide,  open  eyes,  in  seeming  wonder,  altogether 
puzzling  to  the  wily  nature  of  the  man,  who  occasion 
ally  made  a  beckoning  motion,  as  if  asking  attention, 
till  he  finally  saw,  or  fancied  that  he  saw,  in  those  eyes 
distrust,  and  something  like  defiance. 

When  Green  moved  into  Mantua  seven  or  eight  years 
before,  from  the  south  part  of  the  State,  as  he  said,  he 
was  understood  to  be  a  widower,  and  was  accompanied 
by  a  middle-aged  sister,  a  stout,  coarse,  dark  woman, 
and  his  only  child,  the  unpromising  Jake  ;  the  rest  of  his 
household  consisted  of  hired  men,  and  a  3*oung  woman 
or  two,  as  the  exigencies  of  business  required.  Save 
these,  few  knew  of  the  inside  of  his  household  and 
family,  and  they  knew  but  little  of  it.  His  relations 
with  outsiders  were  of  a  purely  business  character, 
which  he  conducted  with  a  marked  politeness  of  man 
ner,  and  generally  fairly.  His  wa}*s  were  said  to  be 
Southern  — at  any  rate  of  a  type  different  from  the 
Yankee  —  and  the  marked  success  that  attended  his 
operations,  conducted  with  much  cautious  enterprise, 
gained  him  the  reputation  of  being  long-headed  and 
deep  ;  which  qualities,  viewed  together  with  his  success, 
inspired  men  with  a  certain  respect  for  him,  while  his 
sly,  stealthy  ways,  and  suavity,  led  his  cool  and  calcu 
lating  neighbors  to  regard  him  with  a  wholesome  dis 
trust.  His  tools  were  of  a  style  and  fashion  unknown 
in  Yankee  land,  —  immense  hoes,  and  clumsy  axes  with 
straight  handles,  instead  of  helves ;  and,  harnesses 
sewed  with  leather  thongs,  he  used  to  drive  with  one 


36  THE    PORTKAIT. 

line,  mounted  on  a  wheel-horse,  and  used  words,  and 
pronounced  them,  in  a  way  unknown  to  down-country 
dialect.  Men  talked  about  him,  yet  nobody  knew  any 
thing  positively  discreditable  to  him,  beyond  the  drink 
ing  and  tippling  he  permitted  upon  his  premises. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

SALLY'S  VIEWS. 

OX  the  morning  after  the  advent  of  Fred,  another 
interview  took  place,  in  the  domain  of  Sally,  be 
tween  that  personage  and  her  brother  John. 

"Goin'  ter  change  yer  sign,  I  s'pose,"  said  the  lad}*, 
indifferently.  "  I  see  j-e've  taken  a  pardner.  It'll  be 
Green  an' —  " 

"  Shi-shi !  "  hissed  John,  in  alarm,  and  turning  to 
beat  off  intruders.  "  What's  the  good  o'  names,  when 
ye  don't  know  'em." 

"What's  the  good  o'  'avin'  this  young  catamount, 
to  tear  yer  eyes  out  ?  I  know  mor'n  ye  think  I  doj" 
snappishly,  like  a  woman. 

"  Ye  do,  do  }'cr  ?     What  d'ye  know  —  come  ?     Didn't 
the  feller    die,   an'  warn't  'e   buried   with   'is   father? 
An  didn't  'is   mother  dig  Mm   up,  an   carry  'im  off— 
come?"     With  a  triumphant  glance  at  the  shadows. 

"  Yah-h-h  ;  an'  didn't  Betsey  break  'er  'art  for  'im  ;  an' 
•warn't  the  money  drownded  in  the  river?  —  if  I  warn't 
thar."  During  the  utterance  of  this  sentence,  the 
efforts  of  Green  to  prevent  interlopers  were  quite 
frantic. 

"Sally!  will  ye  never  'old  yer  tongue?"  looking 
dangerous. 

(37) 


38  THE    PORTRAIT. 

""Will  yc  give  me  the  deed?  Warn't  ye  satisfied 
liein'  'bout  me?" 

"That's  long  ago.  Av  course  ye  knowd }-e'd  'ave  it. 
Wut  sho'd  I  do  with  the  boy  ?  " 

"  Send  'im  adrift  wi'  Sam,  if  yer  afeard  o'  Mm  ; — its 
nothin'  to  me." 

"  Yis,  to  float 'roun  an'  turn  up  nobody  knows  when 
'er  whar." 

"Better  turn  up  any  whar  than  j'ere.  Can't  yc  see 
that  'e's  goin'  ter  look  like  men  o'  blood?  " 

"  AVho's  goin1  to  see 'im  yere  ?  if  they  do,  can't  'e 
bo  a  comc-b3~-chance  o'  yers  ?  Think  o'  Bill  Conyers." 

"  More  lies  about  yer  sister,"  in  a  wearied,  despair 
ing  tone.  "  An'  Jake  says  yer  to  edicate  'im  ;  an  'e 
reads  a  heap  now.  Yer  'd  better  chuck  'im  inter  a 
'  devil's  'ole  '  som'ers  'bout  ycre." 

"  Sally  !  Sally  !  "  with  a  ghastly  look  round  at  the 
shadows,  "  what  der  ye  kno?  That's  only  a  nigger, 
anyway.  An'  then  I  'as  Sam  on  my  'an's." 

"  Sam  won't  trouble  nobody  long  ;  only  let  'im  keep 
on." 

"An'  if  this  chap  sho'd  take  to  Avays,  bein'  'bout  the 
bar,  who  co'd  'clp  it,  yer  know?  " 

"  Jest  let  'im  go  ter  school,  and  be  made  of  by  the 
sneakin'  Yankees  roun'  j'ere,  an'  ye'll  see.  Besides,  who 
kno's  what  Betsey  may  tole  'im." 

"Do  yer  s'pose? —  '  with  a  scared  look  around, 
"  but  Betsey  knowd  nothin' — ." 

"She  didn't,  eh?  No  wonder  3'er  'feard  ;  ye'd  be 
wus  cust  if  yer — " 

'"Ush!"  with  the  voice  and  manner  Avith  which  he 
strangled  Sam,  and  silenced  Jake. 


SALLY'S  VIEWS.  39 

"  Wai,"  said  the  persistent  but  cowed  woman,  "  ye 
allus  'ad  yer  way,  an'  what  do  I  keer?  But  ye'll  see 
what'll  come  o'  it." 

Food,  shelter,  a  place  to  sleep,  safety  to  life  and 
limb,  with  air  to  breathe,  and  room  to  exercise  and 
grow  in,  are  conditions  in  which  young  life  will 
thrive  and  plrysical  development  progress.  Nothing 
that  breathes  has  such  marvellous  adaptability  to  all 
possible  conditions  as  the  human,  and  the  young  hu 
man. 

Fred  —  in  his  little  loft,  his  hard  pallet,  coarse  but 
abundant  food,  and  scant  clothes  ;  in  the  stable,  water 
ing  horses,  riding  them  bareback  with  a  halter,  chop 
ping  and  splitting  wood,  building  fires,  feeding  the 
young  cattle  at  a  stack,  rising  early,  working  hard, 
and  going  to  bed  late  —  had  the  needed  conditions  of 
physical  life,  and  his  principal  business,.next  after  liv 
ing,  is  to  grow.  Thus  with  immense  vitality  and  almost 
wonderful  physical  capabilities,  inherited  from  a  fine 
strain  of  men,  or  cropping  out  anew,  as  is  sometimes 
the  wont  of  seemingly  capricious  Nature,  this  isolated 
boy  is  to  grow  and  thrive,  be  hardy  and  strong. 

And  what  of  his  heart,  his  soul,  his  affections,  his 
moral  nature  ?  Love  is  not  so  essential  to  the  young. 
The  realm  of  affection,  of  morals  and  spirit,  develop 
later.  He  is  not  precocious.  He  will  regretfully  and 
tenderly  remember  his  poor  faded  and  dying  mother, 
and  once  in  a  while  start  off  and  see  little  Johnny. 
Between  him  and  his  father  the  feeling  was  that  which 
subsists  between  a  man  and  young  boy,  thrown  much 
together,  but  not  the  liking  of  a  son  for  a  father  ou 
Fred's  part. 


40  THE    PORTRAIT. 

The  two  nights  and  the  day  at  Mr.  Skinner's  had 
given  him  a  new  and  strange  glimpse  of  life,  —  of  a 
home  full  of  warmth  and  love  arid  plenty  ;  and  how  his 
heart  hungered,  at  times,  for  it !  But  it  was  not  for  him, 
and  he  did  not  think  of  murmuring,  even  to  himself; 
and  finally,  when  he  began  to  go  to  school,  when  he 
could  snatch  himself  away,  and  saw  the  little  troops  of 
brothers  and  sisters  come  and  go,  glad  and  happj",  he 
thought  how  very,  very  sweet  it  must  be,  and  that  some 
time,  when  he  grew  up,  he  would  live  in  some  pleasant 
place  with  little  Johnny.  But  these  things  were  not  for 
him.  Still  he  could  not  help  looking  hungrily  into  the 
faces  of  those  happ}-  children,  going  back  alone  to  his 
round  of  chores,  and  his  cold,  dark,  and  solitary  little 
room,  with  a  feeling  which  he  could  not  explain  or  com 
prehend. 

At  first  he  stood  around  and  looked  on,  wistfully,  at 
the  sports  of  the  other  bo\s  ;  but,  when  invited,  readily 
and  gladly  joined  with  them.  It  is  marvellous  how  soon 
children  get  acquainted.  In  ten  minutes  they  are  the 
oldest  of  acquaintances,  and  in  an  hour  the  fastest  of 
friends.  The  children  at  first  thought  him  shy  and 
distant,  and  there  was  something  in  his  high  looks  like 
pride  and  coldness  ;  so  that  they  were  astonished  to 
find  how  ready  and  glad  he  was  to  mix  in  their  sports, 
and  what  a  bright,  cheery,  and  joyous  nature  he  had. 
His  teacher  found  him  very  docile,  and  eager  to  learn, 
but  rather  slow,  very  attentive  to  his  books,  and  obser 
vant  of  all  the  rules.  In  a  week  he  became  quite  a 
favorite  both  with  teacher  and  scholars.  To  Fred,  his 
school  and  its  associations  were  the  opening  up  of  a 
new  life,  —  whole  new  realms  of  activity  and  enjoyment, 


SALLY'S  VIEWS.  41 

which  lit  up  his  hard,  dreary  surroundings,  imparting 
to  them  new  and  varying  interest,  and  developing  the 
buoyant  and  impulsive  hopefulness  of  his  nature  ;  he 
was  even  heard  to  whistle  and  sing,  and  sometimes 
laugh,  about  the  tavern. 

The  fresh  life  of  his  face  and  manner  were  a  new 
source  of  anxiety  to  John  Green,  who  studied  him  with 
keener  scrutiny  than  before. 

"  There,  what  did  I  tell  ye  !  "  exclaimed  the  trium 
phant  Sally  to  the  discouraged  landlord,  as  the  boyish 
notes  came  to  him;  '^e'll  see!"  and  John  thought 
that  he  W7as  getting  glimpses.  Fred  was  active  and 
attentive  to  his  many  calls,  and  there  was  no  cause  for 
complaint ;  yet  complaints  there  were.  It  cannot  be 
said  that  Fred  felt  anything  like  attachment  for  an}*  of 
the  family,  nor  did  he  spend  much  time,  save  compul- 
sorily,  in  their  presence. 

Sally  he  avoided  on  the  general  principles  that  had 
always,  perhaps,  governed  most  of  his  sex  in  reference 
to  her.  Jake  he  avoided  on  his  own  account,  from  a. 
feeling  of  aversion.  There  was  a  difference  of  five  or 
six  years  in  their  ages,  and  an  irreconcilable  difference 
in  their  natures.  Jake  disliked  Fred  from  the  begin 
ning,  and  in  a  month  grew  to  hate  him,  while  Fred 
returned  a  hearty  disfavor. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  determine  what  were  the  feel 
ings  of  the  elder  Green  towards  the  boy.  He  would 
have  concealed  them  from  himself  had  he  known  them, 
and  that  from  the  secretiveuess  of  his  nature.  So 
accustomed  was  he  to  deceive  and  mislead  others,  to 
conceal  his  purposes  and  intentions,  that  he  sometimes 
spoke  in  an  undertone  so  profound  that  he  was  him- 


42  THE    PORTRAIT. 

self  in  doubt  as  to  what  he  said,  while  his  real  inten 
tion  was  often  a  matter  of  uncertainty  in  his  own  mind. 
He  seemed  at  times  to  be  fascinated  by  Fred,  and 
would  furtivety  follow  him  about,  taking  all  kinds  of 
opportunities  to  steal  upon  and  watch  him.  He  usu 
ally  addressed  him  in  his  soft  and  bland  manner,  and 
sometimes,  without  apparent  cause,  in  a  rough,  coarse, 
almost  brutal  voice,  in  accordance  with  his  nature ; 
and  occasionally  lie  seemed  actually  to  fear  him.  He 
saw,  or  fancied  he  saw,  in  the  bo}*'s  eyes  a  singular  and 
strange  expression,  as  if  he  thought  of  something,  or 
remembered  something,  or  knew  of  something ;  but 
sometimes  it  was  fearless  and  defiant,  and  then  it  was 
arch  and  knowing  again  ;  Green  would  look  again,  and 
the  expression  would  be  gone,  nothing  appearing  in 
Fred's  face  but  the  frank,  innocent,  open  outlook  of 
3*oung  boyhood.  That  did  not  please  him  much  better. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


SIR  WALTER. 


E  winter  wore  on,  and  was  like  a  dawn  of  sun- 
-•-  shine  streaked  with  black  to  Fred.  lie  was  often 
kept  out  of  school,  usually  reached  it  late,  and  alwaj-s 
had  to  hurry  home,  —  or  to  the  place  where  he  worked 
and  ate  and  slept  ;  but  lie  did  not  much  mind  the  hard 
ships.  So  the  winter  passed,  and  the  spring  came,  and 
the  snows  melted,  and  the  days  grew  long,  and  the 
roads  muddy  and  deep,  and  travellers'  horses  had  to  be 
groomed.  The  last  day  of  school  came,  and  the  noisy 
urchins  and  little  maidens  divided  up  into  groups  for 
the  last  time,  and  went  home  ;  and  Fred,  looking  regret 
fully  at  each  as  they  passed  off,  went  sadly  to  the 
tavern  alone.  It  was  not  an  attractive  place,  and  few 
boys  ever  went  there  unless  on  errands,  all  being 
afraid  of  the  landlord,  and  none  of  them  liking  Jake. 
Fred  felt  himself  left  to  unrelieved  work  and  endless 
chores,  without  pleasant  companionship.  Once  in  a 
while  Uncle  Bill  called,  or  gave  him  a  passing  word, 
and  a  boy  friendship  had  sprung  up  between  him  and 
young  Bill.  Sometimes  Fred  saw  Fenton  at  the  store, 
but  his  position  at  the  tavern  was  almost  complete 
isolation  from  the  neighborhood. 

One  friend  and  companion  had  come  to  him  in  the 
(43) 


44  THE    PORTRAIT. 

winter,  between  whom  and  himself  had  sprung  up  a 
tenderness  and  devotion  beautiful  in  itself,  and-precious 
to  the  famished  heart  of  the  boy. 

A  gentleman  had  put  up  at  the  hotel,  attended  by  a 
beautiful  Newfoundland  dog,  a  magnificent  fellow,  with 
great  intelligent  human  03-68,  and  knowing,  sagacious 
ways.  The  toes  of  his  forefeet  were  slightly  marked 
with  white,  and  a  singular  oblong  white  circle  on  the 
upper  part  of  his  head,  surrounding  a  spot  of  black, 
and  a  delicate  white  ring  about  his  neck,  united  on  the 
back  in  a  knot  of  white,  like  a  white  ribbon  tied  in  a 
flat,  graceful  way.  He  wore  a  collar,  on  which  was 
engraved  his  name,  —  Sir  Walter. 

By  accident,  a  day  or  two  before  reaching  Green's,  a 
carriage  had  been  driven  over  one  of  his  forefeet,  and 
crushed  it,  so  as  to  render  him  a  cripple.  HiS  master 
took  him  into  his  carriage  and  brought  him  forward. 
At  Green's,  Fred  had  devoted  himself  unremittingly  to 
Sir  Walter,  on  whose  account  the  gentleman  remained 
over  a  day  or  two  ;  and  when  he  felt  obliged  to  go  on, 
the  foot  seemed  to  be  too  bad  to  admit  of  Walter's 
attending  him.  So,  after  asking  the  permission  of 
Green,  the  gentleman  made  a  present  of  Sir  Walter  to 
Fred.  Had  he  given  him  a  princedom  he  could  not 
have  made  him  more  proud  and  happj'.  Tears  came 
into  his  eyes  ;  and  kneeling  down  ~by  Sir  Walter,  he  put 
his  boy  arms  about  the  clog's  neck,  and  hugged  him  in 
mute  joy,  while  the  grateful  and  affectionate  animal 
looked  up  dumbly  into  the  boy's  lifted  face,  as  if  he 
comprehended  and  returned  his  love,  and  with  the  half 
sad,  pitying  expression  which  is  sometimes  seen  in  the 
eyes  of  the  nobler  of  that  race.  What  a  possession  he 


Sill    WALTER.  45 

was !  "What  a  world  of  love  and  care  and  human 
interest  came  to  him  !  Save  his  little  canoe,  and  two 
or  three  traps,  this  was  the  sole  thing  he  had  ever 
possessed,  and  this  was  alive,  —  a  dog,  of  all  things 
that  he  had  most  longed  for.  "With  a  moistened  eye, 
the  gentleman  renewed  his  injunction  to  Green,  accom 
panied  with  a  five-dollar  bill  for  the  extra  care  and 
room  which  Sir  Walter  might  need  until  well  again, 
and  a  kindly  squeeze  of  Fred's  hand,  and  "  good-by  old 
fellow  "  to  the  dog,  —  drove  away. 

"Walter,  whose  race  and  form  had  never  before  been 
seen  in  that  region,  was  an  object  of  great  curiosity  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  under  the  care  and  nursing 
which  he  received,  in  the  course  of  three  or  four  weeks 
he  fully  recovered.  At  first  he  was  much  petted  by 
Jake,  who  often  asserted  his  ownership  over  him,  but 
the  sagacious  Sir  Walter  took  a  very  hearty  and 
natural  dislike  to  him  ;  indeed,  he  exhibited  no  warmer 
attachment  for  the  elder  Green,  whom,  however,  he 
treated  with  the  sort  of  deference  which  intelligent 
dogs  usually  bestow  upon  the  master  of  a  house.  His 
devotion  to  Fred  was  something  marvellous,  and  was 
manifested  in  a  grave  human  way.  He  so  far  recovered 
as  to  be  permitted  to  go  at  large  before  the  school 
closed,  and  always  insisted  on  attending  his  young 
master  to  school.  Taking  the  books  in  his  mouth,  he 
walked  gravely  by  his  side  to  the  school-house,  and 
turning  back  from  the  door  where  he  usually  presented 
himself  when  school  was  out,  with  a  chip,  or  stick,  or 
straw  in  his  mouth,  and  his  head  curbed  in,  as  Fred 
came  out  to  attend  him  home  again.  After  several 


46  THE    PORTRAIT. 

battles  royal  with  Sally,  Sir  Walter  was  permitted  to 
sleep  in  the  room  with  his  master.  „ 

When  school  closed,  Fred  had  this  one  priceless 
friend  and  possession  to  brighten  his  world,  and  bless 
his  otherwise  lonely  and  loveless  life.  The  end  of  the 
school  brought  an  increase  of  work  to  him,  and  placed 
him  in  a  more  constant  contact  with  Jake,  who  seemed 
to  regard  him  with  growing  malevolence,  and  began  to 
find  opportunities  to  do  him  acts  of  unkindness  and 
spite.  As  the  youngest  about  the  premises,  Fred  was 
the  servant  and  menial  of  all ;  and  it  was  in  Jake's  power 
not  only  to  increase  and  multiply  his  chores,  but  to  put 
various  personal  slights  and  indignities  upon  him,  and 
the  presence  of  Sir  Walter  seemed  to  present  an 
incitement,  as  well  as  occasions  for  augmenting  the 
poor  boy's  annoyances.  It  was  not  quite  prudent  to 
kick  or  strike  Sir  Walter,  but  it  was  easy  to  shut  him 
up,  drive  him  out  of  the  house  or  stable,  and  subject  him 
and  his  master  to  many  annoyances  and  indignities. 
The  position  of  a  friend  to  Fred  would  have  been  very 
humiliating  to  a  human  being  at  Green's  :  for  a  dog, 
it  was  quite  intolerable. 

This  state  of  things  continued,  and  daily  became 
more  aggravated  and  sore.  If  Green  saw  or  knew  of 
it,  as  of  course  he  did,  he  did  not  interfere,  nor  did 
Fred  complain  of  it  to  him.  Jake  had  never  ventured 
upon  any  decided  personal  violence  towards  Fred, 
beyond  rough,  profane  words,  or  an  occasional  push. 
That,  too,  would  have  been  dangerous  in  the  presence  of 
Sir  Walter. 

Some  time  in  May,  when  the  threshers  had  finished 
the  oats  in  the  upper  barn,  and  the  boys  were  set  to 


SIR    WALTER.  47 

clean  them  up,  they  were  there  alone,  the  }~ounger 
turning  the  farming-mill,  and  the  elder  with  a  scoop 
shovel  feeding  it.  Jake,  as  usual,  was  growling  and 
fretting  and  swearing  at  Fred  and  Walter,  who  was 
never  far  from  his  friend.  The  door  being  open  from  the 
barn  floor  into  a  granary,  Walter- went  in  there,  which 
Jake  observing,  closed  the  door.  This  made  Walter 
uneasy,  and  he  whined  to  come  out.  When  Fred 
heard  him  he  sprang  to  open  the  door,  but  found  that 
Jake  had  locked  it,  and  withdrawn  the  key. 

"  There,  dam  ye  I  "  exclaimed  Jake,  approaching  him, 
with  burning  eyes  and  clenched  hands.  "  I've  owed 
ye  a  darn  lickin'  a  long  time,  an'  now  I'm  goin'  to  give 
it  to  ye." 

Though  taken  utterh*  b}T  surprise,  the  bold  and 
defiant  attitude  of  his  3*oung  enemy  caused  Jake  to 
pause  an  instant ;  and  when  he  finally  made  a  rush  for 
the  boy,  he  was  met  half  way  in  a  desperate  grapple. 
lie  had  imderrated  both  the  courage  and  strength  of 
Fred,  and  found  himself  called  upon  to  put  forth  all 
his  force  to  overcome  the  suddenness  and  fury  of  the 
onset.  The  struggle  was  fierce,  and  superior  weight 
and  strength  began  to  tell,  when  there  was  a  crash  of 
shattered  wood  and  glass,  which  the  combatants  heard 
without  heeding,  a  fierce  growl,  a  black  plunge,  and  a 
great  muzzle  fastened  upon  Jake's  neck  ;  the  bully  was 
torn  from  the  sinking  Fred  as  if  he  had  been  a  rag 
babj',  and  lay  writhing  in  the  strangling  jaws  of  Sir 
Walter. 

"  Walter  !  Walter  !  "  exclaimed  Fred,  springing  to 
his  enemy's  relief,  and  seizing  the  dog  by  his  collar. 
At  his  voice,  the  docile  animal  released  his  hold,  when 


48  THE    PORTRAIT. 

Jake  sprang  up  and  dashed  out  of  the  barn,  not  seriously 
injured. 

Unaccustomed  to  scenes  of  violence,  the  whole  thing 
had  come  and  passed  so  suddenly,  that  Fred  stood 
amazed  and  excited,  not  only  not  knowing  what  to 
think,  but  incapable  of  thinking  at  all.  He  finally 
remembered  to  have  heard  the  crash  of  the  window  of 
the  granary,  through  which  Walter  had  leaped  when 
he  came  to  his  rescue,  and  he  stepped  out  to  examine  it, 
followed  by  Sir  Walter.  He  had  just  turned  the  corner 
of  the  barn  when  a  gun  was  discharged  near  him  ;  and 
springing  back,  he  came  upon  the  fallen  dog,  within  two 
paces  of  whom  stood  his  infuriated  murderer,  with  a 
devilish  exultation  on  his  face. 

"  There,  God  dam  ye  !  y  '11  never  'clp  'im  agin." 

Heedless  of  Jake,  with  a  cry  of  anguish,  as  the  earth 
darkened,  the  poor  boy  threw  himself  upon  his  wounded 
friend.  Not  outright  was  the  noble  Walter  slain. 
Without  a  moan  or  whine,  by  a  great  effort  he  raised 
himself  upon  his  forefeet,  with  his  hinder  parts,  which 
had  received  the  charge,  lying  helplessl}'  on  the  ground, 
and  looked  with  his  great,  tender,  loving  human  eyes, 
full  of  mute  compassion,  upon  the  now  unfriended  bo}', 
as  if  he  was  the  only  one  to  be  mourned  for,  and 
tenderly  licked  his  face,  as  if  to  show  his  undying 
attachment. 

"Oh,  Walter  !  Walter  !  Walter  !  Oh,  Walter  !  Walter  ! 
Walter !  "  in  broken,  sobbing  gasps,  was  all  the  poor 
boy  could  say,  as,  with  his  arms  around  his  dying 
friend's  neck,  he  sank  with  him  upon  the  ground,  wish 
ing  only  to  die  with  him. 

Anger  and  indignation  throbbed  back  m  the  blood 


SIR   WALTER.  49 

of  the  passionate  boy,  and  he  sprang  up  to  take  ven 
geance  on  the  slayer  ;  but  it  was  silent  and  empty  about 
him,  with  nothing  but  sunshine  and  the  chippering  cry 
of  the  returned  swallows  in  the  air.  How  hateful  every 
thing  was  !  Turning  to  his  dying  friend,  with  a  great 
exertion  he  lifted  him  tenderly  in  his  arms,  and  parti}' 
cariying  and  partly  drawing  him,  got  him  within  the 
barn,  and  placed  him  on  a  bed  of  straw.  The  grateful 
fellow  seemed  to  understand  the  kindness,  and  looking 
tenderly  in  his  master's  face,  licked  his  hands.  He 
made  a  low  plaint,  a  sound  such  as  that  he  used  to 
make  when  he  wanted  to  drink  ;  and  springing  for  a 
bucket,  Fred  brought  him  fresh  water  from  the  pump, 
of  which  the  poor  animal  drank  eagerly. 

The  weapon  used  was  a  shot-gun  ;  and  so  near  was 
the  miscreant,  that  the  charge  made  a  single  ragged 
wound,  which  bled  but  little  externally,  but  had  shat 
tered  the  spine,  and  destroyed  the  possibility  of  more 
than  two  or  three  hours  of  life  to  the  noble  dog,  who 
lay  with  his  sad  e_yes  upon  his  }"oung  master,  witli  a 
shadow  deepening  in  them,  as  if  conscious  of  approach 
ing  death.  The  poor  boy  felt  that  he  must  die,  and,  in 
his  desolation,  he  knew  of  no  mortal  to  whom  he  could 
turn  ;  his  only  instinctive  thought  was  to  remain  with 
his  brave  defender,  who  had  sacrificed  his  life  for  him. 
Feeling  a  sort  of  shiver  in  poor  Walter's  frame,  the  boy 
brought  a  horse  blanket  from  the  stable,  and  lying 
down  by  his  dying  friend,  drew  the  blanket  over  both  ; 
and  clasping  him  about  the  neck  with  both  arms,  and 
drawing  his  head  up  to  him,  the  wretched  boy,  burying 
his  face  in  the  long  silky  hair  of  Walter's  neck,  aban 
doned  himself  utterly  to  grief.  Never  before  had  the 
4 


50  THE    PORTRAIT. 

complete  isolation  and  desolation  of  his  life  so  come  to 
him,  as  he  lay  in  this  rude  barn,  clasping  the  murdered 
form  of  the  only  thing  that  loved  him,  with  the  darkness 
of  night  falling  over  the  earth,  that  now  held  no  heart, 
nor  home,  nor  hope  for  him. 

Green  had  been  away ;  and  when  he  returned  at  a 
late  hour,  Fred  was  not  there  to  take  his  horse.  He 
had  not  milked  the  cows  or  fed  the  pigs,  or  brought  in 
the  wood,  and  Sally  had  not  seen  him  at  his  supper ; 
nor  was  AValter  about.  Jake  was  hulking  around  the 
bar-room,  more  sulky  than  usual ;  and,  on  inquiry,  said 
that  he  had  left  Fred  at  the  upper  barn  with  Walter. 
Thither  the  now  alarmed  and  misgiving  elders  repaired, 
—  Sally  with  a  sick  sensation  at  the  heart,  for  she 
remembered  to  have  seen  Jake  bringing  his  gun  from 
that  direction. 

A  few  rods  brought  them  to  the  north  door,  which 
they  found  open  ;  and  on  pausing  for  a  moment,  they 
were  startled  by  low,  distressed  sobs,  that  came  from 
the  dark  mass  which  lay  upon  the  floor  near  them. 

"Bring  a  lantern,  Sally,"  said  the  alarmed  brother, 
who  stood  at  the  entrance.  A  lighted  candle  was 
brought,  the  two  entered  the  barn,  and  lifting  the 
blanket,  discovered  the  sobbing  boy,  with  his  arms 
clasped  about  the  neck  of  the  dying  dog. 

"Fred!  what  is  it?"  cried  the  somewhat  excited 
Green,  while  Sally  shook  with  apprehension. 

"  He  shot  him  !  "  cried  the  boy,  starting  up  ;  "  Jake 
shot  him.  He  sneaked  up  behind  him,  and  shot  him 
like  a  coward." 

The  brother  and  sister  exchanged  glances. 

"Are  you  'urt?"  asked  Sally,  doubtingly. 


SIR   WALTER.  51 

"  Xo.  He  didn't  have  time  to  hurt  me,  when  "Walter 
took  'im.  Oh,  Walter  !  Walter  !  Walter  !  "  with  a  voice 
so  pathetic  that  it  even  reached  the  hearts  of  his 
auditors,  and  throwing  himself  again  upon  the  clog's 
neck.  The  presence  of  the  intruders  seemed  to  dis 
turb  the  dying  creature,  and  he  made  ineffective  efforts 
to  rise.  "  Better  put  'im  out  o'  misery,"  said  Green,  in 
a  not  ungentle  voice,  looking  about  the  barn,  as  if  for 
a  bludgeon  with  which  to  despatch  the  dog. 

"  You  shall  not  touch  him  !  You  shall  not  touch 
him  !  "  exclaimed  the  boy,  starting  up,  with  desperate 
defiance . 

"  Don't  'urt  'im,  John  ;  it  '11  soon  be  over,"  said  the 
softened  woman ;  and  whispering  something  to  him, 
John  went  out  of  the  barn,  when  Fred  again  laid  the 
mass  of  his  shining  hair  down,  and  it  mingled  with  the 
silky  mane  of  Walter. 

With  unwonted  tenderness  the  cold  and  blighted 
woman  approached  and  knelt  Iry  them,  and  laying  a 
hard,  wrinkled,  toil-worn  hand  on  the  head  of  cither, — 
"  Pore,  pore  Freddy  !  pore  Walter  !  "  and  for  a  moment 
bowed  her  head  to  the  great  wave  of  womanly  tender 
ness  that  smote  upon  and  overwhelmed  her.  The  voice 
reached  the  hearts  of  the  boy  and  Walter ;  the  first 
gave  a  cry  of  relieving  anguish,  and  the  latter,  turning 
his  tender  eyes  upward  to  her,  feebly  licked  the  hand 
that  caressingly  slid  down  over  his  muzzle. 

Green  just  then  returned  to  the  barn,  bringing  a 
lantern  and  a  basin  of  milk,  which  he  offered  to  Fred's 
lips.  The  boy  took  it,  and  attempted  to  attract  Walter's 
attention  to  it,  placing  it  near  his  mouth  ;  the  grateful 
brute  looked  at  it,  and  turned  his  eyes  back  to  the  face 


52  THE    PORTRAIT. 

of  the  boy  near  his  own.     A  slight  rigor  passed  through 
his  frame,  and  the  love  and  light  died  in  his  eyes. 

A  few  minutes  later,  the  womanized  Sally  unclasped 
the  relaxed  hands  of  Fred  from  his  defender's  neck, 
and  lifting  him  in  her  strong  arms,  bore  him  nearly 
insensible  to  the  house  ;  while  her  brother,  wondering 
at  his  own  weakness,  spread  the  blanket  carefully  over 
the  lifeless  form  of  Sir  Walter,  and  closing  up  the  barn, 
followed  her. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

MR.    GREEN   EXPLAINS. 

happened  to  be  no  guests  at  Green's  that 
-L  night,  and  an  unwonted  quiet  reigned  over  the 
premises.  The  next  morning  there  were  low  words  and 
whispers  exchanged  between  the  hired  men  and  the 
young  women.  They  had  observed  that  Walter  was 
missing,  and  the  girl  had  heard  a  gun,  and  late  in  the 
night,  she  knew  that  Fred  had  been  brought  in  from 
the  barn. 

A  rumor  made  its  way  to  Delano's  store,  and  spread 
through  the  neighborhood,  that  Jake  had  the  night  be 
fore  shot  Walter,  and  wounded  Fred  ;  and  at  a  pretty 
early  hour  Fenton,  Uncle  Bill  Skinner,  Chapman,  De 
lano,  and  others,  with  a  constable,  proceeded  to  the 
hotel  together. 

Green  received  them  with  more  than  wonted  suav 
ity  and  deference,  and  seemed  quite  anxious  about 
their  several  healths.  He  was  interrupted  by  Uncle 
Bill,  who  inquired  where  Jake  was,  and  also  what  had 
happened  the  night  before.  At  that  moment  Jake  came 
in,  when  the  constable  approached  and  arrested  him. 

"'Ow!  What,  gentleman?  what  is't?  asked  Green, 
in  alarm. 

(53) 


54  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"  That's  what  we  came  to  find  out,"  said  Fenton,  de 
cidedly. 

"Jake'll  not  be  hurt."  said  Uncle  Bill,  "  if  he  has 
hurt  .nobody.  Where's  Fred  and  his  dog?" 

"Fred?  Somebody  call  Freddy,"  with  his  assuring 
wave  that  it  was  all  right.  "You  see  I's  away,  an'  the 
boys  had  a  little  trouble,  an'  Jake  shot  the  dog ;  that's 
all." 

"That's  all,  is  it?"  said  Fenton,  quite  excitedly. 
"  How  was  it,  Jake  ? " 

"  Ye  see,"  said  that  young  gentleman,  sulkih',  "  ye 
see,  I'n  Fred  'ad  a  little  scuffle,  an'  Fred  told  Walter 
to  take  me,  an'  he  kitched  me  by  the  throat ;  ye  can 
see  the  marks  now  ;  "  pulling  away  a  neckcloth,  when 
quite  decided  marks  were  apparent. 

"Look  at 'em!  look  at 'em!  gen'lem',"  said  the  de 
lighted  Green  ;  "  look  at  'em,  all  round,  gen'lem' !  " 

"  I  shook  'im  off,"  continued  Jake,  "  an'  shot  'im." 

"  It's  a  lie  !  It's  a  lie  !  "  cried  Fred,  springing  into 
the  room  in  his  shirt  and  trousers,  and  confronting  Jake. 
"  It's  all  a  lie !  We  were  at  work  in  the  upper  barn, 
and  he  locked  Walter  into  the  granary,  and  then  he 
said  he  owed  me  a  dam  lickin,  an'  came  at  me,  an'  I 
went  at  him,  an'  he  hit  me  here,"  showing  a  mark  near 
the  shoulder,  "  an'  we  clinched,  an'  he  was  getting  me 
down,  when  Walter  jumped  through  the  window, 
an'  just  as  I  was  falling  under,  he  jumped  an'  took 
Jake  by  the  throat,  an'  clashed  him  down  like  nothin'. 
an'  would  a'  killed  him  in  a  moment ;  an'  I  sprang  an' 
took  'im  by  the  collar,  an'  called  'im  out,  an'  Jake  ran 
out  the  barn  ;  an'  then  I  remembered  I  heard  the  win 
dow  smash,  an'  soon,  as  I  thought,  I  started  out  to 


MR.    GREEN    EXPLAINS.  55 

see  what  'twas,  an'  just  as  I  got  round  the  corner,  I 
heard  the  gun,  an'  I  turned  back,  an'  there  lay  Walter." 

A  moment's  pause,  in  which  Fred  drew  nearer  to  the 
sulk}'  and  cowed  3"outh,  and  raising  his  hand,  —  "  You 
came  up  behind  him  without  a  word,  and  shot  him, 
like  a  sneaking  coward  as  you  arc."  Had  a  sculptor 
wanted  a  model  of  boyish  indignation,  denunciation,  con 
tempt  and  defiance,  it  stood  before  him,  with  his  splen 
did  form  drawn  up  and  quivering,  his  fine  head  thrown 
proudly  back,  and  the  whole  figure  posed  with  all  the 
muscles  and  veins  starting  in  his  bared  neck,  his  sharply 
cut  nostril  dilating,  and  his  great  black  C}'es  flash 
ing.  The  last  words  came  hissing,  and  were  closed 
with  a  superb  blow  downward,  with  his  right  hand. 
There  could  be  no  question  of  his  blood,  however  he 
came  by  it. 

A  look  of  amazed  admiration  greeted  this  rapid  narra 
tion,  and  splendid  burst. 

"What  do  you  say  to  that?"  demanded  Fenton  of 
the  silent  youth. 

"  What  does  he  say  ?"  exclaimed  Fred.  "Bill  said 
that  he  had  asked  him  to  help  him  skin  him  !  "  His  lips 
trembled  and  quivered  now  ;  and  laying  his  finger  on 
the  arm  of  Jake,  —  "You  touch  him  !  you  touch  him  !  " 

"  Freddy,  Freddy,"  exclaimed  Green,  interposing  be 
tween  the  boys,  "he  sha'u't  touch  'im  !  he s'll  be  buried 
like  a  human  bein'." 

Uncle  Bill  proposed  to  examine  the  barn,  to  which 
Green  at  once  led  the  way,  followed  now  by  the  some 
what  numerous  party,  Jake  attended  by  the  constable. 
The  granary  was  found  locked,  and  Jake  reluctantly 
produced  the  key  from  his  pocket,  when  it  was  found 


,5G  THE    PORTRAIT. 

that  the  window,  some  six  feet  from  the  floor,  had  been 
carried  out,  as  if  by  a  flying  leap,  and  there,  near  the 
corner,  was  the  blood,  where  Walter  had  fallen. 

The  eager  and  compassionate  men  gathered  around 
poor  Walter,  from  whom  the  blanket  was  removed,  and 
wondered  over  and  admired  his  splendid  proportions,  and 
again  and  again  went  over  with  the  astonishing  sagacity 
of  the  imprisoned  dog,  which  led  him  to  divine  the  dan 
ger  of  his  master,  and  the  agility,  strength,  and  courage 
with  which  he  came  to  his  rescue.  "  It's  a  pity  that 
Fred  called  him  off,"  said  Fenton,  in  a  decided  voice. 

"What  if  Walter  had  not  been  here?"  asked  Uncle 
Bill.  "  And  he  won't  be  here  any  more,"  remarked 
Chapman. 

These  comments  were  made  in  the  presence  of  the 
Greens.  On  their  return  to  the  house, — 

"  I  know  what  ye  think,  gen'lem',"  said  the  elder, 
"  it's  nat'ral,  but  you  needn't  be  afeard ;  Jake's  to 
blame,  an'  }'e  may  prosecute  'im,  and  send  'im  to  jail 
if  ye  wish.  We's  raised  different,  we's  'ad  no  larnin', 
and  Jake's  mother  died  amost  as  soon's  'e  was  bornd  ;  " 
and  a  quiver  of  real  feeling  shook  the  man's  voice,  and 
played  on  his  lips. 

"  No  wonder  she  died,  when  she  saw  what  shcYl 
done,"  remarked  the  unmoved  Fenton  to  Uncle  Bill. 

"  Gen'lem',"  said  Green,  "  let- me  see  Misto  Skinner, 
Misto  Fenton,  Misto  Delano,  and  Misto  Chapman  for  a 
moment ; "  and  followed  by  these  parties,  he  led  the  way 
to  the  room  where  we  have  seen  him  before.  After 
closing  the  door,  and  dropping  the  curtains,  and  with 
many  protesting  glances  and  gestures  against  all  in 
terference  or  listeners,  he  began  in  words  that  he  could 


MR.    GREEN    EXPLAINS.  57 

not  himself  hear,  and  finally,  when  heard,  in  language 
so  ambiguous  that  no  meaning  was  conveyed,  to  com 
municate  some  secret  touching  the  birth  of  Fred. 
What  it  really  was,  it  would  be  impossible  to  say. 
The  impression  finally  produced  was,  that  that  young 
gentleman  was  a  near  relative  of  his  own,  and  a  nephew. 
It  Avas  a  secret  confided  to  their  honor.  The  father 
was  of  high  blood,  in  the  South,  and  no  questions  must 
be  asked.  He  made  this  explanation  that  they  might 
see  how  safe  Fred,  who  was  ignorant  of  this  fact,  must 
be  with  his  nearest  of  kin.  "  His  own  flesh  an'  blood, 
gen'lem',"  said  Green,  with  an  assuring  look,  and  ges 
ture  to  outsiders,  that  it  was  of  course,  now,  all  right. 
A  few  words  among  the  gentlemen  themselves,  and 
their  minds  concurred  that  there  could  be  no  occasion 
for  further  interference.  No  complaint  had  been  made, 
and  no  warrant  issued,  and  the  matter  had  better  drop 
where  it  was. 

On  their  way  back  to  the  bar-room  they  passed  Sally, 
whose  tall,  robust  frame  and  dark  marked  and  masculine 
features  seemed  to  confirm  the  story  they  had  just  heard, 
not  improbable  in  itself,  and  which  so  fully  explained 
some  things  which  before  seemed  im'sterious  to  them. 

On  their  return  to  the  bar-room  Uncle  Bill  remarked 
that  the  matter  had  been  fully  talked  over,  and  that 
Mr.  Green  had  given  them  the  most  satisfactory  assur 
ances  that  Fred  should  be  well  used,  and  that  they 
thought  nothing  could  be  gained  by  any  action  in  the 
premises. 

Mr.  Green  then  placed  some  choice  liquors  and 
cigars  upon  the  bar,  and  in  the  most  gracious  way  in 
vited  all  to  participate.  Jake  was  released  from  cus- 


58  THE    PORTRAIT. 

tody,  and  the  next  hour  was  very  convivial.  It  was 
observed  that  Sam  Warden,  though  present,  contented 
himself  with  chewing  the  end  of  an  unlit  cigar. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  by  a  bunch  of  barberry  bushes, 
under  which  a  deep  and  shapely  grave  had  been  dug, 
stood  Fred  and  Sally  and  John  Green.  Sam  Warden, 
and  Bill,  the  hired  man,  brought  a  rough  box,  in  which 
was  the  body  of  the  murdered  Sir  Walter,  which  they 
lowered  into  the  grave.  Fred  dropped  some  locks  of 
hay  carefully  upon  the  box,  and  stood  intently  watch 
ing  them  as  they  filled  it.  When  the  work  was  finished, 
it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  warmth  and  light  of  life  had 
passed  from  the  earth. 

That  night  a  long,  earnest,  and  at  times  bitter,  de 
fiant,  and  threatening  interview  occurred  between  John 
and  Sally,  ending  in  a  seeming  acquiescence  of  the 
latter  with  her  brother's  wishes. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A   WOMAN    AFTER    ALL. 

MANY  long,  .bitter,  tossing,  burning,  delirious 
days,  which  ran  into  weeks,  lay  poor  Freddy 
in  the  grasp  of  a  brain  fever.  Young  Doctor  Moore 
attended  him  with  persistent  determination,  and  the 
tenderness  and  unwearying  devotion  with  which  Sally 
watched  and  nursed  him  gave  fatal  confirmation  to 
the  confidential  communication  of  her  brother  on  the 
morning  referred  to  in  the  last  chapter.  She  permitted 
nothing  to  reach  him,  save  from  her  own  hand,  or  that 
of  Dr.  Moore.  His  great  vitality  and  strong  constitu 
tion  brought  him  through ;  and,  as  he  came  throbbing 
back  to  life,  he  was  conscious  only  of  long  blanks,  with 
here  and  there  a  snatch  of  old-time  memory,  —  the  hut 
by  the  river,  his  pale  mother,  his  little  boat  shooting 
out  of  sight,  with  wondrous  visions  of  a  beautiful 
woman  bending  over  and  kissing  him,  and  calling  him 
names  that  he  had  never  heard  before. 

When  he  grew  strong,  and  went  down,  Jake  had 
gone.  So  odious  had  his  conduct  made  him,  that  his 
politic  father  had  found  it  wise  to  send  him  away  from 
the  tavern,  —  to  Kentucky-,  Fred  was  told. 

The  pony  had  been  brought  up  from  the  farm,  and 
was  waiting  until  Fred  was  well  enough  to  ride  ;  better 
(59) 


60  THE    PORTRAIT. 

clothes  were  put  on  him,  and  somehow  he  found  that  a 
change  had  come  to  him.  So  sweet  and  exquisite  were 
the  sensations  of  returning  health  and  coming  strength, 
and  so  childish  and  weak  did  he  find  himself,  in  his 
wants  and  whims,  as  well  as  in  his  limbs  and  body, 
that  he  almost  felt  as  if  he  was  growing  up  anew,  and 
too  fast  to  be  strong  and  lasting. 

When  he  went  out  it  was  midsummer.  He  heard  the 
mowers  whetting  their  scythes,  and  saw  the  harvesters 
with  their  grain  cradles  going  about  for  jobs.  He  rode 
out,  and  got  the  fragrance  of  the  new  hay,  and  saw  the 
dark,  rustling  corn  ;  and  the  grass  was  drying  on  his 
poor  mother's  grave.  He  rode  down  to  the  river,  and 
over  to  the  Centre,  and  up  to  Mr.  Skinner's  ;  and  some 
how,  everywhere,  there  was  a  change.  People  seemed 
curious  to  see  him,  and  looked  at  his  pony,  but  also 
seemed  changed  to  him.  Even  at  Mr.  Skinner's,  they 
did  not  ask  him  to  sta}7,  or  to  come  again.  People 
seemed  to  look  at  him,  and  turn  and  exchange  looks, 
as  if  they  meant  something.  So,  as  the  consciousness 
of  the  change  grew  on  him  day  by  da}',  he  finalty  asked 
Sail}',  whom  he  had  come  to  love  very  much.  She 
seemed  shocked  and  hurt,  and  finally  told  him  that  he 
must  not  mind  it,  that  he  was  growing  older,  and  was 
changing,  and  that  he  would  change  more.  These 
people  were  cold  and  curious,  she  said,  and  not  like 
their  people  ;  some  time  they  would  go  South  ;  and  he 
wanted  to  know  about  that  country,  and  she  told  him 
stories  of  it. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A    NEW   PENTECOST ITS    APOSTLE THE    NEW   EVANGEL 

AND    PROPHET. 

A  FRESHENING  in  the  religious  sensibilities 
in  that  fur-off  time,  among  a  people  whose 
sojourn  in  the  Ohio  wilderness  had  freed  them  some 
what  from  the  mere  conventional  trammels  of  habit 
and  thought,  had  taken  place,  and  was  still  agitating 
the  common  mind. 

Strong,  earnest,  and  somewhat  rude  men,  with  the 
zeal  of  the  apostolic  da}*,  had  stood  forth  among  the 
people,  and  reproclaimed  the  message  of  Peter  at  Pen 
tecost  :  "  Repent,  and  be  baptized,  every  one  of  you, 
in  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,  for  the  remission  of  sins, 
and  ye  shall  receive  the  gift  of  the  Holy  Ghost." 

Men  heard  it  with  amazement.  It  struck  them  with 
the  force  of  a  new  revelation,  and  the}*  could  hardly 
believe  that  it  was  quoted  aright.  Many  doubted,  and 
shook  their  heads ;  it  was  heretical  and  schismatic, 
this  unclothed  word,  preached  with  the  fervor  of  a  new 
doctrine.  Many  gladly  received  it,  and  were  baptized  ; 
and  new  associations  were  organized,  without  other  word 
or  formula  than  the  New  Testament.  Much  of  the  old 
spirit  of  sweetness  and  love  and  charity  prevailed 
among  them,  calling  themselves,  as  they  did,  "  dis- 
(01) 


62  THE    PORTRAIT. 

ciples,"  and  with  one  accord  they  were  much  given  to 
assembling  themselves  together,  seeking  to  practise  the 
rites  and  follow  the  usages  of  the  first  disciples,  so  far 
as  the  wide  difference  in  the  conditions  of  the  ages 
and  peoples  permitted.  Feeling  certain  that  they  had 
embraced  the  full  gospel  in  its  simplicity  and  purity, 
this  people  could  not  doubt  that  they  had  one  and  all 
received  the  fruition  of  the  promise.  It  was  gravely 
discussed  and  hoped  that,  with  a  genuine  Christian 
growth,  all  the  promises  and  privileges  of  the  prim 
itive  Christians  might  be  realized,  —  the  gift  of  tongues, 
prophecy,  and  healing  the  sick  ;  and  many  looked,  as 
well  the}-  might,  to  a  full  and  complete  restoration  of 
all  these  gifts  and  graces,  and  high  communings. 

The  accepters  of  these  restored  views  included  many 
men  of  consideration  through  the  country  generally ; 
and  among  them,  in  Mantua,  the  younger  Atwater,  the 
Snows,  Seth  Carman,  and  others,  with  the  Reudolphs 
of  Hiram,  and  many  persons  of  consideration  in  the 
various  towns.  While  the  movement  which  produced 
this  awakening  revived  the  zeal  and  fervor  of  the  other 
sects,  and  led  to  feebler  revivals  among  them,  singu 
larly  enough,  it  was  thought  that  the}7  did  not  look 
complacently  upon  the  uprising  of  the  disciples,  whom 
they  rather  contemptuously  called  "  Campbellites,"  and, 
in  Portage  County,  "  Rigdonites." 

Among  all  the  preachers  whose  fervor  and  zeal  had 
re-lighted  some  of  the  dim  or  extinguished  torches  and 
tapers  of  Christian  faith  in  Northern  Ohio,  Eigdon 
stood  preeminent.  Then  thirty-two  or  three  years  of 
age,  he  was  in  the  first  maturity  of  his  remarkable 
powers  as  a  popular  preacher.  Of  stout,  compact,  and 


A    NEW    PENTECOST,    ETC.  63 

vigorous  frame,  endowed  with  wonderful  vitality,  with 
a  short  neck,  large,  well-formed  head,  and  good  face, 
Nature  had  given  him  a  wonderful  command  of  the 
powers  to  persuade  and  move  men.  lie  had  learning 
enough  to  save  him  from  the  charge  of  being  illiterate, 
with  a  fervid  imagination,  and  copious  language  ;  with 
large  veneration,  and  a  love  of  worship,  he  was  stinted 
in  the  moral  make-up.  Bold,  skilful,  and  adroit,  had  he 
been  capable  of  a  loft}-  purpose,  he  might  have  become 
a  religious  reformer,  like  Savonarola  ;  as  it  was,  he 
became  the  apostle  of  a  new  delusion,  that  so  gro 
tesquely  caricatured  Christianity-,  that  even  the  rev 
erent  regard  it  as  a  fit  theme  for  sarcasm  and  ridicule ; 
and  which,  without  the  aid  of  Rigdon's  powers  of  elo 
quence,  and  persuasion,  and  mastery  of  the  weaknesses 
of  human  nature,  would  have  perished  in  its  miserable 
infancy.  Rigdon  had  boldly  preached  that  the  early 
gifts  to  the  churches  would  again  be  restored  to  it. 

In  the  autumn  of  1830,  rumors  had  alread}-  reached 
the  'Mantua  settlements  of  the  new  revelation  that  had 
been  made  to  an  obscure  3'oung  man  in  Manchester, 
Ontario  Count}',  N.  Y.  ;  stories  of  the  angel,  the  golden 
plates,  the  opening  of  the  side  hill,  of  miracles  and 
marvels,  were  rife  among  them.  Suddenly  it  was 
announced  that  the  Prophet,  with  his  brother  and  the 
three  witnesses,  had  arrived  in  Hiram,  and  were  at  the 
Johnsons,  near  where  the  college  building  now  stands  ; 
that  a  miracle  had  been  wrought  on  the  person  of  Mrs. 
Johnson,  whose  withered  arm  had  been  restored,  in  the 
presence  of  the  Rev.  Sidney  Rigdon  and  others,  and 
that  Rigdon  had  become  a  convert. 

It  was  said  that,  in  a  meeting  of  a  few,  it  had  been 


64  THE    PORTRAIT. 

announced  that  a  wonderful  manifestation  would  be 
vouchsafed,  and  that,  at  the  time,  the  Prophet,  who 
was  usually  silent,  and  spoke  only  upon  spiritual  com 
pulsion,  had  broken  forth  in  a  prophetic  rhapsocby,  at 
the  end  of  which  he  turned  to  Mrs.  Johnson,  who,  as 
was  well  known,  had  for  years  suffered  with  a  withered 
arm,  usually  carried  in  a  sling,  and  bade  her  stand 
forth ;  that  she  arose,  and  thereupon  he  commanded 
her  to  stretch  forth  her  arm,  and  she  did,  and  behold 
it  was  fully  restored  !  It  wras  further  reported  that 
others  spoke  in  tongues,  and  that  their  words  were 
rendered  by  others ;  that  Rigdon  declared  himself  con 
vinced,  and  gave  in  his  adhesion  to  the  Prophet. 

It  is  diflicult  to  comprehend  the  intense  excitement 
and  commotion  produced  b}'  the  tales  of  these  marvels. 
Especially  were  the  New  Disciple  churches  shaken  by 
the  course  of  Rigdon  ;  and  all  the  more  so,  when  it  was 
known  that  he  in  no  way  changed  or  varied  from  his 
old  faith  and  preaching,  and  that  the  new  revelation 
was  but  a  supplement  of  the  old,  —  a  realization  of  the 
pouring  out  of  the  spirit  in  these  last  days.  It  was 
also  said  that  the  text  of  the  new  and  marvellous  book 
explicitly  sustained  the  special  views  and  dogmas  of 
their  churches. 

Those  outside  of  all  church  organizations,  as  well  as 
the  members  of  established  sects,  were  under  a  degree 
of  excitement  which  cannot  be  appreciated  at  this 
remote  time.  Indeed,  for  the  most  philosophical  rea 
sons,  the  non-professors,  the  negatives,  are  often  the 
more  easily  taken,  and  are  in  some  sort  predisposed  to 
become  the  victims  of  new  religious  dogma. 

Very  soon  it  was  announced  that  the  Prophet  and  his 


A    NEW    PENTECOST,    ETC.  65 

proselytes  and  witnesses  would  hold  a  meeting  at  the 
South  School-house,  in  Mantua,  afternoon  and  even 
ing.  The  room  was  large;  hut,  long  before  the  hour 
appointed,  it  was  packed,  while  hundreds  stood  out 
side,  notwithstanding  the  cold  of  a  late  November  da}*. 

The  Prophet  and  his  party  came  over  from  Hiram, 
and,  muffled  in  cloaks,  made  their  way  through  the 
yielding  crowd  into  the  building,  and  occupied  an 
elevated  platform,  special!}'  prepared.  Nothing  could 
exceed  the  eagerness  of  the  crowd  to  obtain  a  sight  of 
the  Prophet.  What  a  temptation  to  turn  aside  from 
my  little  tale  to  philosophize  upon  the  strange  night- 
side  of  human  nature,  that  allies  it  so  helplessly  to 
marvels  and  quackery  in  medicine,  and  hopelessl}"  to 
clouds  and  mists  in  religion  !  The  Prophet,  stepping 
upon  the  platform,  uncovered,  turned,  and,  stretching 
his  hand  over  the  hushed  crowd,  said,  "  Peace  be  with 
you  !  "  and  sat  down.  These  words  were  uttered,  not 
without  dignity,  in  a  deep  and  not  unpleasant  voice ; 
and,  in  the  wrought  and  unhealthy  condition  of  mind 
of  the  excited  multitude,  the  words  and  action  pro 
duced  a  deep  impression. 

The  Prophet  was  then  about  twenty-five  years  of  age, 
and  nearly  six  feet  in  height ;  rather  loosely  but  power 
fully  built,  with  a  perceptible  stoop  in  his  shoulders. 
The  face  was  longish,  not  badly  featured,  marked  with 
blue  eyes,  fair  blond  complexion,  and  very  light  yellow 
ish  flaxen  hair.  His  head  was  not  ignoble,  and  carried 
with  some  dignity ;  and  on  the  whole,  his  person, 
air,  and  manner  would  have  been  noticeable  in  a 
gathering  of  average  men.  He  was  attired  in  a  neat- 
fitting  suit  of  blue,  over  which  he  wore  an  ample  cloak 
5 


66  THE    PORTRAIT. 

of  blue  broadcloth,  which  he  threw  back,  exposing  his 
neck  and  bosom,  —  all  with  a  simple  and  natural 
manner. 

At  his  left,  sat  his  fair-haired  younger  and  slighter 
brother  Hiram,  the  one  redeeming  strand  in  the  dark 
web  then  fabricating ;  his  face  was  almost  beautiful, 
with  the  rapt  adoration  with  which  he  regarded  the 
Prophet.  On  his  right  sat  Rigdon,  and  behind  them 
the  three  witnesses  of  the  presence  of  the  golden  plates, 
of  their  delivery,  with  the  silver-framed  crystals,  the 
ancient  "  Urim  and  Thummim,"  the  spectacles  through 
which  alone  could  the  characters  be  read  —  to  the 
shining  Messenger  Moroni,  and  his  flight  with  them 
from  earth  —  the  youthful,  handsome,  and  dainty  Cow- 
dry,  the  rough,  homely,  and  honest  looking  Harris,  and 
the  stolid,  meaningless  face  of  Whitmer. 

The  awful  presence  of  the  Prophet  had  of  itself  im 
posed  upon  even  the  most  sceptical ;  and  when  Rigdon 
arose  as  the  spokesman,  it  was  in  a  hush  of  the  pro- 
foundest  expectation  and  awe.  His  effort,  masterly  for 
its  seeming  want  of  art  and  simplicity  of  language, 
was  devoted  to  a  summary  of  the  new  revelation,  its 
reasonableness  and  proofs.  In  his  citations  and  appli 
cation  of  Scripture  texts,  he  was  ingenious  and  plaus 
ible.  When  he  came  to  the  living  witnesses,  he  called 
first  Oliver  CowdiT,  whose  statement  was  clear  and 
explicit,  and  full}'  confirmed  by  the  others.  When 
they  sat  down,  he  challenged  any  man  to  produce  the 
same  quantity,  and  as  high  quality,  of  evidence  to  sup 
port  the  authenticity  of  the  received  Scriptures.  He 
closed  with  the  assertion  of  the  miracle  wrought  on 
the  person  of  Mrs.  Johnson,  in  his  presence,  in  confirm- 


A   NEW   PENTECOST,    ETC.  67 

ation  of  which,  at  his  call,  that  lady  stepped  upon  the 
platform.  Man}-  present  recognized  her,  and  knew  the 
crippled  condition  of  her  arm.  At  his  bidding,  she 
removed  her  shawl,  and  extended  and  moved,  in  various 
ways,  it  and  its  fellow,  both  seeming  to  be  in  a  perfectly 
health}'  condition.  At  this  exhibition  an  intense  sen 
sation  ran  through  the  crowd,  that  several  times 
threatened  to  break  out  in  irrepressible  excitement. 
But  the  deep  voice  of  the  Prophet  was  heard  rebukingly, 
"  Peace,  be  still !  "  at  which  the  eager,  pressing  crowd 
bent  backward  like  summer  grain  before  a  wind.  Then 
Rigclon,  with  a  loud  voice,  proclaimed  : 

;'  Go  your  way,  and  tell  what  things  yc  have  seen 
and  heard,  how  that  the  blind  see,  the  deaf  hear,  the 
lepers  arc  cleansed,  the  lame  walk,  the  dead  shall  be 
raised;  to  the  poor  the  gospel  is  preached;"  and  sat 
down  in  a  profound  silence,  which  remained  unbroken 
for  a  moment,  when  it  was  announced  that  in  an  hour 
Mr.  Ivigdon  would  preach  at  the  same  place,  after 
which  the  rite  of  baptism  "would  be  administered  to 
believers  who  had  not  been  immersed  according  to  the 
gospel,  as  always  preached  by  him.  Then  the  Prophet 
and  his  part}-  passed  out  amid  the  most  respectful 
silence  of  the  audience,  many  of  whom  retained  their 
places  during  the  interval  before  the  promised  services. 

At  the  hour,  the  house  was,  if  possible,  more  crowded 
than  during  the  afternoon.  When  the  Prophet  and  his 
party  resumed  their  places,  Rigdon  arose,  and  reading 
a  simple  revival  hymn,  uttered  a  fervent  prayer,  read 
one  of  his  favorite  and  well-known  texts,  and,  as  was 
his  wont,  dashed  headlong  into  his  subject.  It  was  the 
old  awful  story  of  the  lost  and  ruined  without  light  or 


68  THE    PORTRAIT. 

hope,  and  the  old  and  grand  expiation,  the  offer  of  rest 
and  bliss  on  the  simplest  and  easiest  condition ;  the 
sweeping  downward  of  time,  the  devious  courses  of 
men,  the  mingling  of  traditions  with  the  golden  strands 
of  truth,  the  need  of  a  new  vindication  of  the  truth, 
and  the  vindication  of  the  ways  of  God  to  men. 

He  was  never  more  thoroughly  master  of  himself, 
never  held  his  subject  with  a  firmer  grasp,  and  never 
had  his  audience  more  completely  in  his  power.  His 
mastery  of  the  passions  and  sympathies  was  perfect ; 
and  the  almost  awful  stillness  with  which  he  was  heard, 
was  at  times  interrupted  by  low  moans  and  heart 
broken  sobs.  He  uttered  the  old  message  of  Peter, 
and  closed  with  a  fervid  and  passionate  appeal  to  the 
lost  and  ruined,  to  acknowledge  and  obey  the  gospel. 

When  he  ceased,  men  still  bent  eagerly  forward  to 
catch  the  next  accents,  —  when  the  deep  voice  of 
the  Prophet  broke  over  the  expectant  throng : 

"  The  Spirit  and  the  Bride  say,  Come.  And  let  him. 
that  heareth  say,  Come.  And  let  him  that  is  athirst, 
come.  And  whosoever  will,  let  him  take  the  water  of 
life  freely." 

At  once,  spontaneously,  a  large  number  of  men 
and  women  from  all  parts  of  the  room  arose,  and  made 
a  movement  forward  in  response  to  the  demand,  when 
Bidgon,  as  had  been  announced,  and  was  his  custom, 
passed  out  with  his  part3",  and  collecting  the  new  con 
verts,  extemporized  flambeaux  and  *  torches,  conducted 
them  to  the  margin  of  the  neighboring  creek  often  re 
sorted  to  for  such  a  purpose,  followed  by  a  procession 
of  several  hundreds.  As  they  reached  the  dark,  wintry 
stream,  suddenly  a  brilliant  flume  burst  up  from  the 


A    NEW    PENTECOST,    ETC.  GO 

opposite  bank,  burning  with  a  strong,  clear,  steady  light 
over  the  scene.  Unexpected  as  this  was,  it  hardly 
excited  surprise  ;  and  had  the  dead  arisen,  many  would 
have  regarded  such  a  marvel  as  quite  in  the  order  of 
events. 

Among  the  many  who  pressed  forward  to  receive  the 
rite,  were  John  and  Sally  Green ;  and  so  the  new 
evangel  was  preached,  and  so  was  it  received. 


CHAPTER     XII. 

IT    IS    A    PITY. 

THE  next  morning  a  group  at  the  store  were  talk 
ing  oxer  the  events  of  the  night  before.  The 
Prophet,  his  person,  powers  and  designs  were  discussed, 
as  also  the  relation  of  Rigdon  with  him,  and  the  prob 
able  results. 

"  If  this  new  gospel  can  convert  and  hold  old 
Green,"  said  Uncle  Bill,  "  I'll  admit  it  has  claims  over 
the  old  dispensation." 

"That  would  prove  nothing,"  contemptuously  re 
marked  Fenton ;  "genuine  grace,  like  good  liquor, 
would  be  wasted  on  him.  Universal  salvation  wouldn't 
reach  him." 

"  I  think,"  said  Chapman,  "  it  would  'a  been  well  to 
have  let  him  soak  awhile." 

"  There  'd  been  no  danger  of  his  drowning,"  contin 
ued  Fenton,  "  for  if  there  was  ever  a  man  born  to  be 
hanged,  it's  him." 

"I  suspect,"  observed  Uncle  Bill,  "that  old  Sally 
had  something  to  do  with  it.  I'll  believe  in  her  conver 
sion.  They  say,  in  fact,  she's  been  a  changed  woman 
ever  since  Fred's  fight  with  Jake." 

"  So  I've  heard,"  said  Fenton,  "  and  I  don't  under 
stand  it  at  all,  if  what  Green  said  was  true.  If  she's 
(70) 


IT    IS    A    PITY.  71 

Fred's  mother,  she  of  course  knew  it  before  that,  and 
they  say  that  she  always  hated  him  before." 

"  There's  no  knowin'  by  what  Green  says,"  replied 
Chapman  ;  "he's  like  Delano's  watch,  here,  —  the  only 
certain  thing  you  ever  can  tell  b}'  that  is,  that  it  is  not 
the  time  that  his  turnip  says  'tis." 

"  Don't  compare  my  watch  with  Green,"  said  Delano, 
laughing  with  the  others,  "for  it  will  point  at  some 
thing  directly,  while  one  really  never  can  tell  what 
Green  does  point  at." 

"  I  wonder  if  they  put  Jake  in?  "  asked  Fenton.  "  I 
see  he's  back  again.  The  washing  would  have  done 
him  good,  anyway.  He  don't  look  as  if  he  had  been, 
washed  since  the  flood." 

"And  then  he  carried  an  umbrella,"  added  Chap 
man. 

"  I  should  'a  thought  old  Sally  would  'a  taken  Fred 
in,"  remarked  another. 

"  Fred  wouldn't  go,"  said  Uncle  Bill.  "  Though  a 
queer,  strange  boy,  he  knows  mor'n  the  whole  on  'em." 

"What  a  pity!"  said  Fenton.  "These  chaps  are 
always  as  smart  as  steel ;  there's  never  but  one  mis 
take  about  them.  In  a  year  or  two  he'll  take  care 
of  Jake,  and  all  the  rest  on  'em.  —  What  a  pity  !  " 

"It  is  a  pity,"  commiseratingly  remarked  Uncle 
Bill ;  "  of  what  use  is  strength,  and  good  looks,  and 
learning,  and  even  money,  to  this  poor  boy?  lie  feels 
it  now,  though  he  don't  know,  and  could  not  under 
stand  it.  Even  these  Green's  were  so  sensitive  that 
they  left  the  South  an'  came  away  here  among  us  Yan 
kees,  that  the}-  hate  as  —  as  —  " 

"  Sam  Warden  does  water,"  suggested  Chapman. 


72  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Uncle  Bill,  "  and  only  to  escape 
this  shame,  and  it  followed  'em,  as  it  alwaj's  will ;  and 
this  bo^y'll  grow  up  under  its  shadow,  and  be  dwarfed 
and  warped  and  made  crooked  by  it.  None  but  the 
naturals  of  kings  and  nobles,  in  countries  where  their 
vices  have  made  such  things  common,  ever  escape,  and 
the  fame  and  greatness  of  such  men  always  disappear 
when  we  learn  that  fact ;  we  see  nothing  but  the  ugly 
blot." 

"  It's  in  the  nature  of  things,"  said  Fenton.  "When 
we  don't  know  how  to  explain  a  thing,  we  always  refer 
it  to  the  inexplicable  '  nature  of  things.'  But  think  how 
unjust  it  is  !  We  don't  think  the  less  of  the  man  the 
most  guilty  ;  we  condemn  the  woman,  though  we  al 
ways  feel  an  interest  in  her,  who  is  often  scarcely  to 
blame  ;  wThile  the  child,  the  only  innocent  one,  and  who 
can  by  no  possibility  be  in  fault,  we  at  once  loathe, 
abhor,  and  outlaw.  What  a  hero  this .  boy  was  !  We 
would  have  fought  for  him  in  a  moment ;  and  }'et,  at 
a  word  from  that  dam'd,  lying  old  scoundrel,  we  went 
and  drank  his  liquor,  and  passed  off  without  a  word 
or  thought  of  the  boy.  Not  a  man  of  us  would  'a 
touched  him  ;  and  I  swear,"  growing  excited,  "  I  be 
lieve  he  lied  about  it  all  the  time.  There's  some  infer 
nal  mystery  about  it  after*  all." 

"  Does  the  suspicion  of  this  change  }*our  feelings. 
towards  this  boy  ?  "  asked  Delano. 

"  Not  as  I  know  of,  although  I  am  ashamed  of  the 
feeling." 

"While  I  think  the  feeling  is  natural,"  sakfe^Uncle 
Bill,  "  I  think  it  is  unworthy  and  unmanly.  It  never 
came  home  to  me  before,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  admit 


IT    IS    A    PITT.  73 

that  it  has  influenced  me,  in  common  with  the  rest  of 
you." 

"  How  did  it  get  out?"  asked  Fenton. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Chapman  ;  "  I  told  my  wife, 
because  she  ought  to  know." 

"  Exactly,"  answered  Fenton  ;  "  and  if  she  ought  to, 
everybody  else  ought  to,  and  what  ought  to  bo  for  once 
was,  and  is.  I  had  no  wife  to  tell,  and  before  I  had 
a  chance  to  tell  anybody  else,  everybody  knew  it.  It's 
a  great  pit}*  —  " 

"  That  you  did  not  get  a  chance  to  tell  it?"  asked 
Uncle  Bill. 

"  William  Skinner,"  replied  Fenton,  a  little  decidedly, 
"  we  humans  are  a  low,  depraved,  malicious,  uncharit 
able  set,  and  I  would  be  glad  to  believe  in  the  fall  and 
original  sjn." 

"And  have  a  devil  to  lay  things  to,  which  would  be 
a  hand}-  get-off.  David  Fenton,  I  prefer  to  think  that 
*ve  wretched  humans  began  very  low,  and  are  certainly 
and  surely  very  slowly  working  our  wa}r  upward,  and 
we  bring  with  us  the  stains  of  our  savage  wallow. 
For  one,  I'm  sorry  that  we  have  not  reached  a  level 
where  this  poor  boy  could  have  found  rest  and  friends 
and  home,  and  where  his  misfortune,  redeemed  from  its 
odium,  would  have  so  appealed  to  our  sympathies  and 
sense  of  justice,  that  he  would  in  some  sort  have  found 
compensation, — and  that's  the  pity." 

"Uncle  Bill,"  said  Fenton  warmly,  "3-011 're  a  Chris 
tian  philosopher,  notwithstanding  what  3-011  sometimes 
sa3*.  For  though  3'ou  reject  Christianity,  it  has  ifot 
rejected  you  ;  —  its  beautiful  spirit,  —  for,  mock  as  you 
will,  it  is  beautiful.  I,  who  sometimes  swear  —  right- 


74  THE    PORTRAIT. 

eously,  of  course  —  say  this:  its  beautiful  spirit  pen 
etrated  and  fashioned  the  sources  of  your  nature,  how 
ever  unregenerated  theologically  speaking,  that  may 
be,  and  changed  the  atmosphere  you  breathe  till  you 
have  a  desire  to  be  higher  and  better  than  we  were 
born,  and  work  for  that.  The  regard  in  which  we  hold 
this  poor  boy  is  a  prejudice  ;  it  is  unworthy,  but  it  is 
powerful.  It  is  below  the  level  of  intelligent  discus 
sion,  and  cannot  be  reasoned  with.  It  is  universal,  and 
cannot  be  escaped  from.  It  is,  as  we  say,  natural,  and 
cannot  be  overcome  ;  and,  once  again,  it  is  a  pity,  and 
that  is  all  that  can  be  said." 

It  was  a  pity,  and  pitiable  now  as  then. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

A    PRINCE    OF    THE    HOUSE    OF    JUDAH. 

IN  that  inner  room  of  Green's,  for  all  the  afternoon, 
sat  the  Prophet  and  Rigdon,  and  John  Green,  who 
seemed  to  have  been  at  the  confessional ;  and  now  pale, 
abject,  and  cowering,  on  his  knees,  with  his  hands 
clasped,  and  not  daring  to  raise  his  eyes,  with  his 
blanched  and  tear-stained  face  ghastly  in  its  wretched 
ness,  he  tremblingly  awaited  sentence,  —  whether  it 
was  to  consign  his  body  to  a  jail  and  death,  and 
his  SQU!  to  perdition,  or  both  to  earthly  penance  and 
contrition. 

"  Arise,"  said  the  Prophet ;  "  it  doth  not  }-et  appear 
what  the  spirit  shall  command.  Withdraw."  The  poor 
wretch  proceeded  towards  the  door. 

"  One  moment,  —  does  she  your  sister  know?  " 

"  Not  all.     She,  'spicions  a  'cap." 

"  Go  and  bring  in  Oliver,  the  scribe." 

Green  returned  with  that  worthy,  who  served  the 
Prophet  as  a  secretary,  and  who  now,  in  the  presence  of 
Green  from  his  chiefs  dictation,  reduced  a  lengthy  state 
ment  to  writing  ;  a  magistrate  was  brought  in,  and  in  his 
presence  Green  prefixed  his  mark  to  it,  and  acknowl 
edged  it  to  be  his  free  act  and  deed.  The  justice  sub 
scribed  it  as  witness,  when  it  was  sealed  up,  receiving 
(75) 


76  THE    PORTRAIT. 

an  impression  from  a  seal  ring,  worn  by  the  Prophet, 
who  handed  it  to  Cowdry,  and  all  withdrew  but  Smith 
and  Rigdpn. 

"  And  so  the  Mammon  of  unrighteousness  is  made 
to  redound  to  the  glory  of  the  Most  High,"  said  Smith, 
with  mock  solemnit}',  his  blue  eyes  twinkling  with  im 
mense  satisfaction.  "  Sid,  this's  a  devilish  good  strike. 
We'll  take  this  poor  cuss  and  relieve  him  of  his  sins, 
that  is,  his  money,  so  that  he'll  have  nothing  to  do  but 
to  lay  up  treasures  in  heaven,  —  eh,  Sid?  3-011  see,  he 
can't  complain,  his  tongue's  tied.  He  shall  be  our 
servant,  our  ox,  our  ass,  and  see  his  hoards  put  to 
goodly,  if  not  godly,  uses,  and  this  shall  be  to  him 
instead  of  the  law  of  the  Lamanites.  He  shall  be 
doomed  to  ten  years'  penance  and  hard  labor." 

"  And  his  sister,  Jo  ?  " 

"  She's  a  knowing  one.  She  must  go  with  us,  too. 
It'll  do  to  keep  our  eye  on  her." 

"  And  the  boy  ?  What  of  him  ?  It  will  not  do  to  let 
him  go,  —  something  might  come  of  it  if  he  does." 

The  Prophet,  who  had  dropped,  as  was  his  wont,  his 
prophetic  mantle  when  with  his  confidential  ministers, 
was  really  kind  at  heart,  and  this  question  posed  him. 

"  This  boy,"  continued  Rigdon,  who  was  not  then 
prepared  to  depart  utterly  from  all  recognition  of  nat 
ural  law,  "  would  seem  to  have  some  claims,  at  least, 
on  his  father's  money." 

"  That's  so,  though  we  can't  admit  them  very  fully," 
answered  Jo  ;  "  let's  have  him  in,  and  John  and  Sally, 
and  settle  it  at  once,  Sid." 

At  Rigdon's  summons,  the  parties  were  soon  before 
them,  —  John  cowering  and  fawning,  Sally  sad-faced, 


A    PRINCE    OF    THE    HOUSE    OF    JUDAH.  77 

collected,  and  with  a  restful  look  ;  and  Fred  wondering, 
open-eyed,  and  diffident,  but  without  a  particle  of  fear. 
lie  had  fully  recovered ;  his  face  was  bright,  and  his 
long,  wavy  black  hair  hung  negligently  about  his  face, 
and  down  his  neck,  with  a  carelessness  that  would  have 
taken  the  eye  of  a  painter. 

The  eye  of  the  Prophet  rested  kindly  upon  him.  He 
placed  his  hand  on  his  shining  hair,  and  shook  him 
by  his  firm  shoulder,  regarding  his  promising  figure, 
and  frank,  handsome  face,  and  open,  fearless  brow,  with 
approving  admiration. 

"It  is  a  good  I}"  youth,"  he  said  at  length,  "  a  child 
of  the  lords  of  the  Lamanitcs.  lie  shall  become  a 
prince  of  the  house  of  Judah.  Clothe  him  in  fine 
raiment,  and  let  him  be  skilled  in  all  the  knowledge  of 
his  fathers,  and  come  in  and  go  out  before  the  Lord. 
And  he  shall  wax,  and  become  a  mighty  man,  and 
a  great  captain,  and  in  the  great  day  will  lead  the 
hosts  of  the  Lord  to  battle  against  the  Lamanites  and 
the  Gentiles,  and  shall  prevail.  So  let  it  be." 

"  And  for  you,  man  of  guile  "  •  —  turning  to  John,  who 
cowered  before  him  —  "into  whose  heart  temptation 
came,  that  in  the  end  God  might  be  glorified,  go  forth, 
to  toil  diligently  with  thy  hands.  Thou  shalt  care  for 
the  herds  and  swine.  Be  discreet  with  thy  tongue, 
penitent  and  patient  in  thy  heart,  constant  in  prayer, 
and  diligent  in  works  of  repentance  ;  if,  hapl3*,"  and 
rising  to  his  full  height  and  extending  his  arm,  "  if, 
haply,  in  the  fulness  of  thy  years,  God  shall  pardon 
and  give  thee  rest.  So  let  it  be." 

The  last  sentences  were  pronounced  with  a  solemnity 
and  awe  that  impressed  even  Rigdou,  who  looked  for  a 


78  THE    PORTRAIT. 

moment  as  if  he  believed  that  a  real  coal  from  the  high 
altar  had  touched  the  Prophet.  John  shrank  murmur 
ing,  and  coweringly  towards  the  door  ;  Sally  reverently 
dropped  her  head,  and  tears  streamed  from  her  eyes ; 
while  Fred,  with  a  half  amused,  half  puzzled  expression, 
stood  where  the  Prophet  had  left  him. 

"  Man,"  said  the  Prophet,  "  go  and  be  diligent, 
rendering  accounts  to  the  steward  of  the  Lord.  Wo 
man,  remain  with  him,  and  care  for  the  goodly  youth." 
And  laying  his  hand  for  a  moment  on  the  head  of  the 
latter,  as  if  in  benediction,  they  went  out. 

"  Ha  !  Sid  !  old  fellow  !  "  slapping  the  still  astonished 
Rigdon  on  the  shoulder,  "  what  do  you  say  to  that, — 
rather  goodish,-eh?  " 

"  It  will  do,  I  think,"  replied  the  latter,  laughing 
faintly.  "  But  I'll  tell  you  what,"  gravely,  "  that  light 
on  the  other  side  of  the  creek  was  rather  shallow,  and 
•won't  bear  repeating." 

"  Oh,  well,  it  won't  be  necessary  to  claim  anything 
for  that  if  there's  anything  said  about  it ;  cotton 
wicking  and  turpentine  don't  cost  much.  But  I  was 
devilish  afraid  that  Olny  would  give  tongue  with  his 
unknown  jargon,  — '  Shalang,  Shala,  Shale,  Shalo.' 
God  !  I'd  give  something  for  an  interpreter  of  that.  No 
wonder  brother  Paul  discouraged  this  sort  of  thing." 

"  Let  us  have  none  of  that  here,"  said  Rigdon,  decid 
edly.  "  Nor  will  it  do  to  attempt  such  another  perform 
ance  in  this  neighborhood.  There  are  cool,  shrewd 
heads  all  about  us  here." 

"  What's  the  prospect  with  the  Atwaters,  and  the 
Snows,  and  Deacon  Carmon  ?  "  asked  Smith. 

"  I've   some   hopes  of  the  Snows ;   Uncle   Oliver  is 


A    PRINCE    OF    THE    HOUSE    OF    JUDAH.  79 

long-headed,  but  then  he's  wrong-headed,  and  we'll 
catch  him  in  that.  If  we  do,  the  family  will  follow. 
As  for  young  Atwuter,  he  and  the  younger  Campbell 
married  sisters,  you  know." 

"  I'd  like  to  try  Alexander  himself,"  said  Jo,  a  little 
assert  ively. 

"  You'd  wither  under  his  glance  like  a  plucked 
pumpkin-blossom  in  August,"  said  Rigdon,  contemptu 
ously.  "  His  eye  is  like  an  eagle's  ;  and  he  is  as  firm 
and  clear  as  rock  crystal." 

"  '  Urirn  and  Thummim  '  in  one,"  retorted  Jo,  deris 
ively. 

"  1  think,"  said  Rigdon,  quite  decided!}',  "  that  we'd 
better  not  remain  here  long.  If  we  stir  up  these 
churches  too  much,  we  shall  have  Campbell  after  us. 
I  don't  care  for  old  Tom,  but  I'd  rather  not  have  Alex 
ander  after  me,  just  now." 

"Well,  what's  to  hinder?  Johnson  will  buy  land 
anywhere,  only  he  must  have  the  title  to  himself, 
which  is  pretty  dam'd  shrewd  for  a  new  convert.  No 
matter ;  we'll  take  this  swag,  and  make  a  plant,  wher 
ever  you  say.  I  wonder  if  supper's  about  ready  ?  and 
tell  Oliver  to  have  some  of  that  brandy  on  hand." 

The  outside  world  knew  that  something  was  going 
on.  All  da}'  long  a  crowd  had  been  about  the  tavern 
watching  for  a  glimpse  of  the  Prophet,  and  wondering. 
Towards  evening,  they  knew  that  Squire  Ladd  had  been 
sent  for,  and  had  been  in  ;  but  he  knew  nothing,  and 
chose  to  say  less.  Late  in  the  evening,  the  Prophet 
and  Rigdon,  with  Cowdry,  returned  to  their  more  per 
manent  quarters,  at  Hiram. 

John  Green  did  not  appear  again  in  the  bar-room, 


80  THE    PORTRAIT. 

over  which  Jake,  who  had   been  back  for  some  time, 
sulkily  presided,  while  Fred  came  and  went  as  usual. 

People  had  latterly  regarded  him  and  treated  him 
in  such  a  queer  way,  that  he  had  avoided  them,  and 
seemed  not  very  communicative. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

THE   CITY   OF   THE    SAINTS.  —  BRIGHAM    YOUNG. 

rpWEXTY-THREE  or  four  miles  cast  of  Cleveland, 
-i-  and  six  or  seven  south  from  Lake  Erie,  and  within 
the  township  of  Kirtland,  lie  Kirtland  Flats,  traversed 
north  and  south  by  the  Chillicothe  road,  running  over 
the  old  trail  from  the  old  Indian  town  of  that  name,  to 
the  lake. 

Through  the  flats,  or  rather  valley,  and  one  of  the 
loveliest  of  its  tame  character,  in  a  northwestcrnly 
direction,  runs  Kirtland  Creek,  on  each  side  of  which 
spreads  out  a  rich  alluvial  at  this  point,  nearly  two 
miles  in  width,  and  of  unsurpassed  fertility. 

The  latter  part  of  the  winter  and  early  spring  of 
1831,  saw  strange  sights  of  the  gathering  of  strange 
people  on  the  flats,  —  houses  and  shops,  and  huts  and 
shanties  and  boxes,  rudely  extemporized,  dropping  and 
squatting  here  and  there,  and  teams  of  horses  and  oxen, 
with  every  variety  of  strong  or  rude  vehicle,  and  a 
motley  assemblage  of  men,  women,  and  children,  in 
which  the  rude,  rough,  ignorant,  squalid  and  poor  were 
the  prevailing  type,  until  one  wondered  where  they 
could  have  come  from,  with  here  and  there  a  manly, 
intelligent  face,  and  well-clad  form,  and  occasionally  a 
beautiful  and  refined  woman,  strangely  out  of  place. 
6  (81) 


82  THE    PORTRAIT. 

And  all  this  various  assemblage  of  the  odds  and 
ends,  with  this  sprinkling  of  the  higher  element  of 
humanity,  had  one  thing  in  common,  —  a  cord  of 
fanaticism  that  vibrated  in  all  alike,  and  some  evi 
dences  ,of  which  a  thoughtful  observer  would  have 
seen  in  their  countenances. 

Such  a  zeal,  having  nothing  to  do  with  knowledge, 
a  reckless  abandonment  of  all  the  sober  considerations 
of  human  life  ;  such  an  exultant,  headlong  casting  of 
self  upon  the  ecstasies  of  the  wildest  faith,  to  drift 
and  be  borne  by  the  resistless  currents  of  fanaticism 
gone  mad,  the  earth  had  hardly  seen,  since  Peter  the 
Hermit,  and  Walter  the  Penniless,  assembled  their 
hordes  for  the  recovery  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  Hymns 
and  preachings  \>y  da}T,  and  prayers  and  shoutings  and 
prophecies,  and  the  jargon  of  unknown  tongues,  with 
visions  and  trances,  ruled  the  night. 

It  was  the  first  gathering  of  the  Latter  Day  Saints, 
at  the  beginning  of  their  marvellous  pilgrimage.  The 
voice  of  the  Prophet  had  gone  forth,  calling  the  new 
elect  to  come  out  from  the  world,  and  they  came. 
Lord,  what  a  sight ! 

Marvellous  success  attended  the  preaching  of  Rig- 
don  and  his  associates.  Not  many  of  his  earlier  faith 
followed  him,  but  two  remarkable  conversions  hud 
already  taken  place  :  Mr.  Boothe,  a  leading  Methodist 
preacher  of  learning  and  decided  ability,  and  Elder  R}~- 
der  of  the  disciples.  The  adhesion  of  these  two  to  the 
Prophet  gave  him  a  real  moral  power  in  Northern  Ohio, 
and  he  had  already  ordained  the  twelve  apostles,  and 
sent  them  forth  ;  the  fruits  of  their  ministry  were  gath- 


THE    CITY    OF    THE    SAINTS. BRIGHAM    YOUNG.        83 

eringto  the  Xew  Zion,  and,  by  the  first  of  Ma}-,  some 
hundreds  had  assembled. 

Johnson,  of  Hiram,  had  sold  out  his  propertj',  and 
invested  the  proceeds  in  the  purchase  of  the  flats,  sev 
eral  hundreds  of  acres,  the  title  to  which  he  had  taken 
to  himself,  as  the  Prophet  had  predicted  he  would. 

A  spacious  dwelling,  already  on  the  propert}',  was 
the  head-quarters  of  the  Prophet  and  his  immediate 
suite,  counsellers  and  advisers.  A  hotel  was  immedi 
ately  opened,  new  buildings  of  a  better  class  were  com 
menced,  and,  with  the  exactions  and  contributions  of  his 
rapidly-increasing  followers,  he  found  himself  in  a  con 
dition  to  subsidize  the  material,  labor,  and  skill  of  the 
surrounding  country,  which  was  profoundly  excited  by 
the  sudden  springing  up  of  this  outgrowth  of  religious 
delusion. 

In  June,  among  others,  there  arrived  from  the  East 
a  young  man  by  the  name  of  Young,  son  of  a  farmer, 
with  a  fair  English  education. —  a  .young  man  of  fine 
person,  genial,  handsome  face,  and  pleasing  manners 
and  address.  He  soon  manifested  an  unusually  shrewd 
managing  mind,  with  a  great  capacity  to  win  con 
fidence,  and  grow  upon  men.  He  had  a  natural  aptitude 
for  affairs,  and  things  on  his  hands  instinctively  went 
right :  obstacles  disappeared  in  his  presence,  and  order 
and  method  waited  upon  lus  footsteps.  He  contented 
himself  with  modestly  doing  what  came  to  hand,  uncon 
scious  of  his  own  powers,  perhaps,  and  was  educated  by 
circumstances  and  opportunity,  which  always  attend 
the  lives  of  the  naturally  shrewd.  Not  long  was  the 
modest  young  brother  Brigham  among  the  saints,  as 
they  meekly  styled  themselves,  before  he  attracted  the 


84  THK  roirrn.uT. 

notice  of  the  Prophet,  who  was  quick  to  discern  the 
qualities  of  men,  and  who  was  not  slow  to  avail  him 
self  of  the  executive  talents  of  the  young'  convert, 
lirigham  was  no  zealot  or  fanatic,  and  he  was  quick  to 
see  the  needs  of  the  new  situation.  Nor  was  he  un 
fruitful  in  expedients.  Under  his  hand  a  much-needed 
police  was  organized,  a  commissariat,  established,  shops 
opened,  and  employment  found  for  the  idle.  The  do 
main  was  laid  olf  into  building  lots,  with  regular  streets 
ami  alleys,  and  the  relations  of  the  new  community  put 
on  a  more  decent  footing  with  their  curious  neighbors. 

The  sudden  assembling  of  some  hundreds  of  idle,  low, 
and  often  vicious  or  depraved  spirits,  freed  from  the 
restraints  and  habits  of  usual  life,  with  the  stimulating 
effect  of  association,  all  firmly  believing  that  they  wero 
the  elect  of  the  earth,  and  that  after  a  rapidly  approach 
ing  ilny  all  the  rest  of  the  race  were  to  be  cut  off,  and 
that  they  were  the  direct  heirs  of  the  universe ;  that 
the  earth  and  its  fulness  were  the  Lord's  —  that  the 
earth  was  given  to  the  saints  —  and  that  they  were  the 
saints  ;  it  was  not  much  to  be  wondered  at  that  they 
should,  by  indirect  ways,  exceptionally  anticipate  the 
day  of  full  delivery  to  them,  to  the  great  inconvenience 
and  loss  of  temper  of  their  ungodly  neighbors. 

Unquestionably,  these  lawless  tendencies  among  his 
followers  coincided  very  nearly  with  the  Prophet's  prim 
itive  ideas  of  acquisition,  if  not  with  his  earlier  habits  of 
appropriation ;  but  the  shrewder  Kigdon,  and  the 
entirely  practical  Brigham,  could  easily  see  that  if  they 
would  remain  in  peace  with  their  neighbors,  the  usages 
and  forms  of  civilization  must  be  observed,  and  that 
buying  and  not  paying,  however  artificial  and  unre- 


THE    CITY    OF   THE    SAINTS. BUIGIIAM   YOUNG.        85 

generate,  were  preferable  to  the  simpler  and  possibly 
more  attractive  mode  of  taking  without  leave,  and 
attended  with  less  danger. 

Brigham  soon  developed  a  talent  for  speaking  —  some 
what  rare  among  the  followers  of  the  Prophet  —  was 
called,  and  ordained  an  elder,  and  coming  rapidly 
forward,  was  finalhy  set  apart  for  missionary  service. 
Tie  early  strengthened  himself  by  a  judicious  marriage 
with  a  young  woman  of  a  good  family,  a  resident  of 
Kirtland,  and  outside  of  the  church  of  the  saints. 

In  nothing  is  the  sublime  egotism  of  the  race  of 
men  more  conspicuous,  than  in  the  great  powers  it 
claims  for  all  those  to  whose  government  or  leadership 
it  has  submitted  itself;  and  it  never  will  tolerate  the 
idea  that  it  has  been  deluded  and  imposed  upon,  save 
by  men  of  wonderful  powers,  although  it  is  often  diffi 
cult,  as  in  this  instance,  to  show  wherein  consisted  this 
vaunted  capacity  and  genius. 

Joseph  Smith  undoubtedly  had  a  fair  share  of  the 
lower  elements  of  wisdom  and  sagacity  which  we  call 
cunning  ;  was  fertile  in  expedients,  and  possessed  much 
intuitive  knowledge  of  the  lower  springs  and  motions 
of  human  conduct.  lie  was  naturally  courageous, 
always  cool,  and  his  impudence  reached  the  sublime  ; 
while  the  gambler's  faith  in  luck,  with  him,  was  a  chronic 
fanaticism.  "  I  will  become  the  Mohamet  of  America," 
was  his  oft-repeated  declaration  to  his  confidants. 

The  ideas  of  veneration  and  reverence  were  unknown 
to  him  ;  and  the  levity  and  familiarity  with  which  he 
joked  about  the  most  sacred  things,  shocked  even  the 
practical  atheists  who  shared  his  confidence.  The 


86  THE    PORTRAIT. 

nameless  One  with  Mary  and  Martha,  the  reasons 
wiry  his  brothers  the  apostles  were  sober  on  the  day 
of  Pentecost,  and  Paul's  excuse  for  not  marrying,  were 
staple  topics  of  irreverent  comment. 

His  estimate  of  men  was  the  simplest  and  most 
comprehensive.  The}-  were  knaves  or  fools,  or  both. 
Not  without  skill  in  dealing  with  those  about  him, 
he  often  affected  to  place  them  in  a  nominal  rank  with 
himself,  and  pla}'ed  them  off  against  each  other.  He 
was  without  culture,  and  never  acquired  the  capacity 
for  an}'  sustained  extemporaneous  'speech.  He  had 
some  readiness  in  the  use  of  Scripture  phrases,  and 
often  employed  its  figures  with  effect.  Sensual,  and 
fond  of  tlic  society  of  ladies,  like  man}-  such  men,  he 
was  not  without  address  to  common.  1  himself  to  their 
favor.  He  had  a  lively  sense  of  the  ludicrous,  and 
appreciated  wit;  and  while  there  was  in  his  speech  a 
prevailing  tone  of  coarse  levity,  that  broke  out  at 
times  most  unseemly,  and  was  alwa}-s  feared,  there  was 
also  a  vein  of  sentiment  almost  poetic,  which  at  other 
times  toned  him  up,  and  rendered  him  impressive. 
He  was  in  no  way  an  original,  even  in  his  eccentricities. 
1 1  is  self-assurance  was  unsurpassed  ;  and  after  full  prep 
aration  and  careful  rehearsal,  he  was  always  equal  to 
his  public  occasions. 

The  secret  of  the  wonderful  success  which  attended 
him,  must  be  looked  for  in  the  common  blindness  and 
weakness  of  the  race  brought  from  the  caves  and  woods 
of  its  far-off  pilgrimage,  by  a  \cry  common  human  na 
ture,  plastic  and  impressible,  and  in  the  tone  and  temper 
of  the  religious  atmosphere  of  that  day. 


THE    CITY   OF   THE    SAINTS. BRIGIIAM   YOUNG.        87 

After  all,  I  have  a  little  story  to  tell ;  and  I  deal  with 
this  movement,  its  sources  and  course,  only  as  they 
bear  upon  the  fortunes  of  one  already  brought  prom 
inently  to  the  notice  of  my  reader. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

SET    APART. 

T~\URING  all  this  time,  John  Green  was  a  zealous 
-*-J  and  devoted  saint,  unremitting  in  his  religious 
exercises,  and  faithful  in  the  duties  assigned  to  him. 
His  peculiarities  of  manner  and  language  did  not 
much  commend  him  to  the  favor  of  his  new  and 
strange  associates ;  but  his  whining,  caressing,  and 
confidential  ways  had  acquired  a  warmth  and  earnest 
ness  that  seemed  to  be  real,  while  his  efforts  to  depre 
cate  and  prevent  intrusion,  and  give  assurances  that  it 
was  all  right  —  that  in  fact  there  never  was  any  cause 
of  apprehension  —  were  at  times  ludicrous.  Naturally 
his  confession  and  new  faith  had  brought  a  momentary 
rest,  almost  peace  and  confidence.  He,  however,  soon 
began  to  show  signs  of  physical  change.  He  became 
slightly  stooped,  and  wrinkles  and  furrows  were  planted 
and  ploughed  over  his  large  face  with  a  depth  that 
showed  that  the  transforming  hand  was  in  earnest ;  as 
if  the  shadows,  whose  presence  were  fictions,  assumed 
to  flatter  a  favored  visitor,  had  become  palpable  and 
real,  —  were  the  mocking  attendants  of  the  host. 

Sail}"  had  really  awoke  to  a  fresh  interest  in  life. 
The  fossil  remains  of  heart  and  sensibilities,  withered 
or  exhausted  in  early  life,  had  suddenly  sprung  into 
(88) 


SET    APAKT.  89 

new  vigor,  called  up  by  a  wailing  cry  of  deserted  and 
helpless  childhood,  and  in  their  renewal  embraced  a 
brother  with  a  tenderness  never  before  felt ;  even 
him  who,  in  his  callous  and  criminal  selfishness,  had 
not  hesitated  to  inflict  the  gravest  injuries  upon  her. 
From  a  life  of  the  narrow  torpor  of  mere  existence, 
she  found  herself  lifted  to  the  warmth  of  human  love, 
and  the  anxiety  of  a  needed  tenderness.  Fred,  thought 
less,  heedless,  warm-hearted,  impulsive,  wa}'ward,  but 
frank  and  passionate,  needed  her  care,  and  had  the 
unselfish  love  of  a  mother  ;  and  John,  old,  perhaps 
criminal,  stricken  and  wretched,  misguided,  as  she 
thought,  in  surrendering  up  everything  to  Smith, 
Prophet  though  he  was,  was,  as  she  could  see,  becom 
ing  helpless,  —  how  helpless  she  knew  not,  for  she  did 
not  know  the  full  grasp  with  which  he  was  holden. 
Partly  from  her  native  vigor,  and  partly  from  the 
knowledge  that  she  held  a  considerable  property  free 
from  the  clutch  of  the  church,  Sally  received  much 
respect  at  the  house,  where  she  was  a  sort  of  housekeeper, 
and  where  Jake  occasionally  came  when  he  was  in 
Kirtland. 

Sam  Warden  tramped  from  Kirtland  to  Mantua  and 
back,  an  unconverted  Lamanite  ;  his  real  purpose  in 
visiting  Kirtland  was  to  see  Fred,  whom  he  really 
loved,  and  of  whom  he  was  becoming  very  proud. 

Fred  was  a  favorite  with  the  Prophet,  who  distin 
guished  him  with  many  marks  of  favor,  and  had  been 
placed  under  the  care  of  a  competent  teacher,  not  only 
in  the  ordinary  English  branches,  but  also  in  Hebrew 
and  Greek  — the  Prophet  having  an  absurd  fancy  for 
the  former  language  —  and  not  only  required  that  his 


90  THE    PORTRAIT. 

higher  priesthood  should  acquire  it,  but  even  under 
took  it  himself,  and  learned  the  alphabet.  Indeed,  his 
whole  polity  was  a  servile  copy  of  the  Hebrew  original, 
never  fully  carried  out  till  the  migration  West. 

Fred  developed  no  remarkable  quickness  in  study, 
but  was  docile,  and  had  a  great  steadiness  of  applica 
tion  for  a  boy  of  his  age.  He  was  permitted  to  retain 
and  use  his  pony,  and  often  went  on  hunting  and 
fishing  excursions  ;  yet,  in  some  wa}T,  while  life  was 
bright  and  joyous  to  him,  he  began  to  feel  the  presence 
of  a  hidden  restraint,  the  existence  of  which  manifested 
itself  in  various  ways,  and  which  was  the  more  irk 
some,  as  he  had  no  wish  to  escape,  and  evaded  no 
requirements.  The  terms  on  which  he  lived  there  he 
was  never  curious  to  understand,  and  perhaps  no  one, 
could  explain  them.  lie  was  neatly  dressed,  well 
cared  for,  yet  who  or  what  managed  and  controlled 
him  was  not  apparent.  It  was  the  will  of  the  Prophet, 
which  no  one  questioned.  He  attended  the  public 
worship  of  the  saints,  and  was  attentive  to  his  studies  ; 
he  was  not  instructed  in  religious  matters  at  first. 
Nobody  asked  him  questions  about  himself;  nobody 
asked  anybody  about  him ;  he  was  admired  and  en 
vied  ;  yet  who  or  what  he  was,  if  any  one  knew,  no  one 
told.  In  some  way  it  came  to  be  understood  that 
nothing  was  to  be  known  of  him,  and  he  was  thus  sur 
rounded  with  a  nameless  mystery.  Faces  were  turned 
to  him,  with  mute  questions,  and  when  he  approached 
they  turned  away,  or  suddenly  became  blank  ;  whispers 
ran  about  him,  mentioning  his  name,  and  when  he 
turned  to  ask,  the}'  suddenly  ceased,  and  the  persons 
were  not  talking,  —  were  not  there.  He  seemed  to  be 


SET    APART.  91 

haunted  and  isolated,  and  the  poor  boy  turned  inward 
upon  himself;  precocious  in  this,  as  deep,  thoughtful, 
and  isolated  children  become.  If  he  went  out,  and 
met  men  and  spoke  to  them,  they  returned  his  greeting, 
but  made  no  conversation  ;  the  boys  rather  avoided 
him,  and  little  girls  looked  curiously  at  him,  and  were 
silent.  He  read  books,  —  not  many,  for  not  many 
were  to  be  had  :  the  intellectual  life  of  the  saints  was 
as  poor  and  starved  as  could  well  be.  He  looked  in 
the  glass,  and  saw  a  tall,  well-formed  boy,  with  dark, 
speaking,  grave  face,  with  great,  and,  to  him,  sad,  dark 
eyes,  and  brows  that  bent  almost  over  them,  curling 
hair,  which  Aunt  Sally  —  he  called  her  so  now  —  liked 
to  have  grow  long. 

What  was  it  in  him  that  people  saw  and  did  not 
like?  It  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  looked  well  or 
ill,  but  he  sought  to  find  out  what  it  was,  and  could  not 
discover  it.  Not  as  at  Mantua  was  he  avoided,  but 
more  as  one  set  apart  ;  while  something  like  an  inti 
macy  sprang  up  between  him  and  the  gentle  Ilyram,  to 
whom  Nature  had  denied  the  marked  qualities  of  his 
brother,  compensating  him  witli  a  more  pleasing  person 
and  many  attractive  characteristics.  Nor  was  he  long  to 
remain  without  other  companionship. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

THE  PROPHET'S  HAREM. 

E  social  life  of  the  now  community  brought  out 
J-  the  features  always  produced  under  similar  condi 
tions.  Called,  by  the  command  of  revelation,  from  the 
outer  world,  to  a  new,  tenderer,  and  warmer  brother 
and  sisterhood,  from  which  the  forms  of  ordinary  life 
wei'c  banished,  with  their  minds  liberated  from  the 
restraints  of  old  faith,  and  in  a  measure  from  the  habits 
of  its  old  morals,  with  their  moral  natures  and  imagina 
tions  shaken  03*  supposed  supernatural  manifestations, 
while  their  minds  were  perverted  and  blinded  with  a  de 
lusion  that  took  the  form  of  an  infectious  mental  disease, 
in  the  new  freedom  of  manners  and  license  of  association 
which  formed  the  basis  of  this  singular  community, 
the  Mormons  speedily  gave  occasion  for  the  comment 
of  the  idle  and  the  strictures  of  the  uncharitable  out 
side  observers. 

In  the  summer  and  autumn  of  1831,  many  important 
accessions  were  made  to  the  new  Zion.  Some  of  the 
new  converts  were  men  of  wealth  and  culture,  who, 
with  their  families,  united  with  the  zealous,  fervid  throng. 
The  wives  and  daughters  of  these  men,  many  of  them 
beautiful  and  gifted,  with  the  accomplishments  and  graces 
of  culture,  were  warmly  welcomed  by  the  Prophet  and 
(92) 


THE    PUOPIIET  si    IIAUKM.  93 

his  chiefs,  and  became  the  centre  of  their  society,  if 
not  the  enlighteners  of  their  counsels,  and  the  possible 
inspirers  of  some  of  the  Prophet's  revelations.  The 
graces  of  these  fair  devotees  were  not  lost  on  him  ;  and 
it  was  his  habit  to  unbend,  in  their  presence,  from  the 
awful  strain  to  which  his  mission  called  him,  and  to 
find  relaxation  and  pleasure  in  their  society.  There 
was  no  banishment  of  the  light  and  sweet  graces  that 
spring  from  the  presence  of  women,  and  the  austere 
and  self-denying  virtues  and  mortifications  of  the  an 
chorite  found  small  space  in  the  discipline  of  the  Prophet. 
The  violin,  and  gay  jo^'ance  of  the  dance,  and  little 
pleasant  attentions  of  gallantly,  were  rather  acceptable 
to  the  preacher  of  the  new  dispensation,  and  found 
ample  toleration,  if  not  encouragement,  in  the  militant 
church  of  the  saints  of  the  last  days,  and  fulness  of 
time.  With  ladies  he  affected  playfulness,  and  in 
dulged  in  the  half  abandon  of  gay  banter  and  persiflage, 
not  unbecoming  his  years,  but  which,  in  the  eyes  of  ladies 
less  favored  of  nature,  or  by  the  grace  of  the  Prophet, 
seemed  not  a  fitting  garland  for  the  awful  brow  of  the 
specially  called  of  God.  Among  his  conceits  he 
affected  a  fancy  for  old  Scripture  names,  which  he 
applied  sometimes,  happily,  to  his  favorites  of  the  sex, 
and  which  their  friends'  usually  reverently  adopted. 
Judith  was  a  young  widow,  splendidly  formed,  with 
regal  brow,  and  straight,  thin  nose,  flashing  eye,  and 
a  perceptible  shadow  on  her  short  upper  lip.  Two 
beautiful  sisters,  a  blonde  and  a  brunette,  were  Mary 
and  Martha,  with  an  aptitude  for  the  roles  of  those 
of  the  old  days.  One  budding  brunette  of  thirteen  or 
fourteen  was  the  Rose  of  Sharon,  and  another  sylph- 


91  THE    PORTRAIT. 

like  blonde  the  Lily  of  the  Valley,  and  so  on.  He  had 
applied  several  different  names  to  Fred,  but  none  that 
seemed  to  please  himself,  or  that  adhered  to  him. 

Late  in  the  fall,  a  spacious  residence  for  the  Prophet 
was  hurried  to  completion,  in  which  was  a  ball-room, 
with  many  unapostolic  conveniences  ;  and  here,  when 
the  Prophet  took  possession,  he  was  wont  to  assemble 
his  favorites  in  the  winter  evenings,  who  came  and 
formed  about  him  a  sort  of  court,  where,  in  the  absence 
of  ceremony  and  reverence,  joyousness  and  pleasure 
ruled. 

It  was  his  wish  that  Fred,  at  first  shy  and  bashful, 
should  be  present,  and  take  part  in  these  informal 
reunions  ;  and  he  took  pleasure  in  promoting  an  ac 
quaintance  between  him  and  the  romping,  saucy 
Rose,  and  the  gentle  and  shy  Lily  ;  and  it  was  amus 
ing  to  observe  the  unhesitating  advances  of  the  former, 
half  warranted  by  her  superior  age,  and  inspired  by 
her  frank  and  open  nature,  and  the  half  petulant,  half 
disgusted  way  in  which  they  were  received  by  the 
bashful  boy,  as  yet  unpolished  by  society,  and  unin 
formed  b}*  the  gentle  inspirations  of  nature.  Is  there 
in  the  world  a  funnier  spectacle  than  a  boy  thus  tor 
mented  ~by  the  torturing  attentions  of  an  elder  fro- 
ward  miss,  or  in  mortal  man's  experience  a  position 
more  intensely  and  painfull}T  awkward  ?  Patience, 
playful,  teasing,  and  all  unconscious  Rose  ;  his  voice 
will  change  from  its  treble  to  baritone,  and  subside 
to  .a  sigh  ;  he  will  soon  be  watching  for  a  mustache, 
and  grow  anxious  about  a  necktie,  and  your  time,  or 
somebody's  time,  will  come,  and  3*011  shall  take  sweet  ven 
geance  yourself,  or  some  one  of  your  sex  shall  for  you. 


THE  PROPHET'S  HAREM.  9") 

Naturally  enough,  Fred  preferred  the  gentler,  younger, 
and  less  pronounced  Lily,  between  whom  and  himself 
rapidly  sprang  up  a  sweet  boy  and  girl  kindness,  half 
friendship,  and  half  the  love  of  brother  and  sister. 
Fred  was  tall  and  handsome,  and  it  was  natural  to  look 
up  to  and  cling  to  him,  as  she  had  no  brother,  and  was 
gentle  and  sweet  and  beautiful,  almost  beyond  earth ; 
and  it  was  natural  that  the  heart  of  the  boy,  the  depths 
and  strength  of  which  had  never  been  called  out,  should 
go  to  her,  as  something  to  love,  cherish  and  protect.  At 
his  obvious  preference  for  Lily,  the  mock  indignation 
of  the  avoided  Rose,  and  her  pert  and  sharp  speeches  at 
poor  Fred's  expense,  were  a  source  of  amusement  to  the 
Prophet  and  his  circle. 

The  two  girls  —  who  became  fast  friends,  as  young  and 
old  girls  do  —  with  two  or  three  others,  were  also  placed 
under  the  instruction  of  Fred's  teacher,  and  he  was  thus 
surrounded  by  and  became  a  sort  of  centre  of  a  bright 
group  of  young  people  of  about  his  own  age.  Pleasant, 
almost  happy,  were  these  days  to  Fred,  and  helpful  and 
almost  wholly  healthful  in  their  influence  in  form 
ing  his  mind  and  helping  to  mould  the  elements  of 
his  character.  His  teacher,  though  a  disappointed, 
gnarled,  and  soured  man,  was  not  a  proselyte  of  the 
Prophet,  and  had  much  capacity  as  a,  tutor.  Fred 
was  now  in  an  atmosphere  of  cultivated  and  refined 
people,  and  at  an  age  which,  while  it  left  him  plastic 
and  susceptible,  was  still  too  juvenile  to  permit  him  to 
be  penetrated  and  stained  by  the  hot  and  unwholesome 
influences  which  surrounded  him. 

Externally,  the  affairs  of  the  saints  seemed  prosper 
ous.  They  numbered  nearly  two  thousand  residents  ;  a 


96  THE    PORTRAIT. 

large  store,  a  fine  mill,  and,  at  last,  a  bank  of  limitless 
issue  were  established,  and  friendl}-  relations  existed 
between  them  and  the  outside  world.  So  the  summer 
of  1832  found  them. 

The  foundation  of  the  temple  had  been  laid  with  im 
posing  ceremonies,  and  funds,  and  material,  and  arti 
sans  were  in  abundance  to  cany  up  its  walls. 

Internally,  the  poison-seeds  were  germinating,  dissen 
sions  were  in  the  presidencj*,  and  feuds  between  the 
orders  of  the  hierarchies  had  alread}r  arisen. 

A  pale,  sad-faced  woman  went  silently  about  the 
home  of  the  Prophet,  and  hung,  with  tearful  eyes,  over 
the  cradle  of  the  infant  Joseph. 

The  haught}'  Judith  bent  her  regal  brow  suspiciously 
upon  the  sisters  Mary  and  Martha,  and  even  looked 
curiously  at  Rose  ;  while  Mary  and  Martha  were  con 
scious  of  an  estrangement,  though  perhaps  unconscious 
of  the  cause.  So  the  summer  ripened  into  autumn,  and 
faded  out  into  winter. 


CIIAPTEE     XVII. 

THE    VISION    AND    CALL. 

CONNECTED  with  the  Prophet's  residence  was  the 
prophetic  tower,  in  which  were  the  Pavilion  of 
Vision,  and  the  Tabernacle  of  Inspiration,  sacred  from 
all  but  the  Prophet,  and  such  as  he  chose  to  admit.  It 
was  in  the  first  of  these  that  he  received  visions,  and 
in  the  latter,  spiritual  ministrations. 

Stained  glass  softened  the  light,  rich  carpets  received 
the  feet,  and  elegant  sofas  and  stuffed  chairs,  and 
various  nameless  and  some  indescribable  appliances 
relieved  the  tedium  of  waiting,  and  offered  attractive 
resting-places  to  the  celestial  visitants.  Many  closets 
and  small  rooms  opened  from  the  two  principal  apart 
ments,  always  closed  to  profane  feet,  and  unrevealed  to 
unsanctified  eyes. 

On  the  couch  of  reception,  in  the  Pavilion  of  Vision, 
arraj-ed  in  a  loose  silken  robe,  which  left  the  throat 
exposed,  reclined  the  Prophet,  in  the  trance  of  expecta 
tion,  and  so  disposed  that  a  circle  of  softened  and 
rose-colored  light  rested  like  a  halo  about  his  head.  A 
subtle  perfume  pervaded  the  room,  in  a  niche  of  which, 
and  near  the  feet  of  the  Prophet,  loosely  robed  in  white, 
and  zoned  slightly  at  the  waist,  with  bare  feet  and  bare 
arm's,  with  her  floods  of  blond  tresses  dropping  in  golden 
7  (97) 


98  THE    PORTRAIT. 

waves  and  ripples  about  her,  with  her  lips  slightly 
apart,  and  her  splendid  blue  orbs  fixed  adoringly  on 
the  Prophet,  a  rich  flush  on  cheek  and  lip,  and  a  tumul 
tuous  heaving  of  the  bosom,  that  her  pressed  hand 
could  not  still,  stood  the  Mary  of  this  advent,  breath 
less  and  rapt. 

There  was  a  slight  motion  of  the  entranced  form, 
the  hanging  canopy  opened,  and  a  golden  ray  fell  upon 
and  illuminated  the  lips  of  the  Prophet.  A  smile 
pla3*ed  over  his  hitherto  moveless  features,  the  lips 
parted,  and  in  a  low,  soft  voice  he  spoke  : 

"  And  the  spirit  said,  Lo  !  and  as  I  looked,  the  thick 
clouds  parted,  and  before  me  ran  the  beautiful  river  of 
life  under  the  sunlight  and  margined  with  flowers,  and 
on  the  thither  bank  stood  the  imumerable  hosts  of  the 
redeemed,  star-crowned,  and  striking  their  jewelled  harps 
with  gladness  ;  and  at  their  head,  towering  above  the 
sons  of  men,  and  with  the  form  and  beaut}'  of  an  angel, 
stood  he  who  had  led  them  there.  And  the  voice  said, 
'  Lo  !  he  who  hath  delivered  them  was  born  of  a  virgin, 
and  the  Prophet  of  the  Lord.' "  The  light  flashed  out 
for  a  moment  with  dazzling  birilliancy,  when  the  voice 
of  the  Prophet  again,  in  the  tones  of  earth,  was  heard, 
"  Come  !  the  Spirit  and  the  Bride  say  come,"  stretch 
ing  forth  his  arms.  A  rustle  of  the  white  robe,  the 
gleam  of  a  white  foot,  the  glance  of  white  arms,  and 
she  sank  on  her  knees  by  his  side,  murmuring,  "My 
Prophet  and  my  Lord."  And  the  thick  folds  of  the 
drapery,  like  enfolding  noiseless  night,  fell  with  mute 
darkness  about  them. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 


THE    LILY. 


TN  a  little  cottage  low  down  on  the  banks  of  the 
•J-  beautiful  creek,  and  under  a  bluff  that  juts  down 
to  its  margin,  now  hoarse  and  murmuring  with  the 
autumn  rains  ;  under  the  golden  and  crimson  maples, 
radiant  with  a  flood  of  autumn  sunshine  that  poured 
through  a  red-lipped  rift  in  the  dark  October  clouds ; 
in  the  little  sitting-room,  warm  with  the  West,  reclining 
in  a  low  rocking-chair,  with  her  wondrous  eyes  grown 
large,  but  with  the  color  still  on  lip  and  cheek,  sat 
the  Lily  of  the  Valley ;  and  on  a  low  ottoman  at  her 
feet,  with  his  great  liquid  dark  eyes  lifted  with  mute 
sorrow  to  her  translucently  spiritual  face,  holding  her 
miracles  of  hands,  sat  Fred.  Too  frail  for  earth,  too 
pure  for  its  atmosphere,  the  golden-fringed  wing  of 
the  angel  had  shaken  its  shadow  of  light  and  blight  on 
the  gemmed  margin  of  life  only  to  exalt  and  purify  and 
beautify  heart  and  spirit  and  form,  as  they  stepped 
along  the  star-lit  way  that  leads  down  to  death  and 
up  to  God ;  a  sweeter  pensivencss,  a  dreamy  languor, 
came  over  her,  like  the  far-off  approach  of  sleep,  bring 
ing  tender  shadows  into  her  eyes,  like  coming  dreams 
in  the  drowsy  orbs  of  childhood  ;  a  lower  note  in  her 
laughter,  a  more  caressing  tone  in  her  voice,  just  %  lin- 
(99) 


100  THE    PORTRAIT. 

gcring  iii  her  step,  and  a  clinging  in  her  hand,  and  she 
went  brightly  along  the  shining  way. 

The  approach,  made  in  the  loveliest  form,  was  per 
ceived  by  her  widowed  mother  in  the  spring.  At  mid 
summer  the  physicians  came  and  looked,  and  went 
almost  silently  away.  With  the  coming  of  autumn 
the  indications  were  marked,  and  in  October  it  was 
decided  that  her  life  could  only  be  prolonged  by  a 
flight  with  the  birds,  southward  ;  so  it  was  arranged  to 
carry  her  to  beautiful  Cuba.  In  the  morning,  a  car 
riage  would  start  with  her  and  her  mother  across  to 
Cincinnati. 

She  was  telling  Fred  of  the  wonders  of  Cuba.  "  They 
say  that  in  mid-winter  it  is  warmer  than  our  August ; 
that,  day  after  day,  the  whole  heavens  are  radiant  with 
white,  brilliant  light,  that  dazzles,  and  that  every  clay- 
brings  new  and  wonderful  flowers,  and  that  there  grow 
the  wonderful  palms  —  " 

"  I've  seen  them,"  said  Fred,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  You  ?     AVhen  and  where  ?  " 

"  In  nry  dreams,  I  suppose,  —  when  I  had  the  fever, 
perhaps,"  said  Fred,  looking  puzzled. 

"  And  then  there  are  marvellous  fruits,  whose  names 
we've  never  heard,  —  and  —  oh,  when  I've  seen  them, 
I'll  come  back,  and  tell  you,  —  perhaps,"  thoughtfully. 

Fred  arose,  saying  he  would  come  and  see  her  start 
in  the  morning. 

"  Fred,"  said  the  mother,  "  say  your  good-by  to 
night.  It  will  be  better  for  both." 

The  poor  boy  looked  with  pain  in  Ms  mute,  appeal 
ing  eyes,  and,  turning  back,  threw  himself  on  his  knees 
by  the  now  agitated  child,  and,  clasping  her  in  his  arms, 


THE    I.ILY.  101 

sobbed  out,  "  Oh,  Lily  !  oh,  Lily  !  "  and  buried  his  face 
in  her  robes  in  a  paroxysm  of  sorrow.  The  poor  girl 
bent  over  him,  hardly  less  excited.  "  Don't,  don't, 
Fred,  don't !  " 

lie  remembered  that  he  was  almost  a  man,  and 
raised  his  tear-stained  face,  now  under  control. 

"Fred,  there's  one  thing  I  want  to  say  to  you"  — 
with  a  low,  deep  voice  —  "  which  I  must  say ;  don't 
stay  here.  It  —  it  —  is  not  good  here.  I  can't  tell, — 
I  don't  know  why  ;  but  it  ain't  good.  Go  away  ;  oh,  go 
away  from  here  !  " 

"  Go  !  "  exclaimed  Fred,  "  I  cannot  go  ;  I'm  watched. 
Where  could  I  go?  I  have  no  home,  no  father,  no 
mother.  I  don't  know  who  or  what  I  am.  A  dog  was 
the  onby  thing  that  ever  loved  me,  and  he  was  slain 
for  it.  I  would  gladly  die !  "  bitterly. 

"  Hush,  hush,  Fred  !  that  is  wicked.  God  is  with 
you,  and  His  angels  will  care  for  you,  if  you  will  be 
good.  I  love  you  ;  mamma  loves  you.  You  are  almost 
a  man,  and  strong  and  brave,  and  can  go  anywhere, 
and  do  anything ;  and  if  I  live,"  said  the  beautiful  girl, 
"  I  shall  come  back,  and  you  can  come  to  us." 

"  If  you  live  !  "  exclaimed  Fred  ;  "  if  you  live  !  You 
cannot  die  !  "  passionately. 

"  Fred,  I  may  never  see  you  again  ;  "  and,  putting 
her  lips  to  his,  she  murmured  "  farewell." 

Fred  could  remember  the  touch  of  no  lips  to  his,  and 
none  were  ever  to  touch  them  again  till  — 

Not  lovers,  as  the  world  counts  lovers,  were  this 
young  girl  and  boy  ;  perhaps  would  never  have  become 
such.  Possibly,  had  the  young  girl  ripened  into  woman 
hood,  she  would  have  carried  the  image  of  the  youth  iu 


102  THE    PORTRAIT. 

her  heart,  and  have  known  no  other.  Possibty,  the 
youth —  Who  will  speculate  upon  the  possibilities  of 
the  passions? 

Fred,  whose  feelings  la}r  deep,  and  who  had  been 
already  taught  the  bitter  lesson  of  repression  and  con 
trol,  without  a  word  passed  out  of  the  cottage,  and 
took  his  way,  amid  the  shadows  of  the  young  night, 
down  the  banks  of  the  creek,  toward  the  near  forest. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 


THE    ROSE. 


never  was  such  a  boy,"  said  the  piqued, 
petulant,  and  pouting  Rose,  one  evening  towards 
spring,  after  one  of  her  teasing  raids  on  poor  annoj'ed, 
and  half  disgusted,  Fred.  How  she  had  ripened  within 
a  few  months,  with  her  bright  face  Hushing  with  au 
dacity,  and  her  eyes  liquid  and  swimming  with  sensi 
bility  !  She  had  stolen  upon  him,  and  snatched  his 
book  from  his  hands,  and  ran  away  with  it,  and  he  did 
not  follow  her,  the  booby,  only  looked  annoyed,  with 
his  eyes  turned  from  her. 

"Will  it  have  its  book  back  again?  Well,  don't 
cry  ;  it  shall  have  it,  then  !  "  With  a  mocking  gesture, 
as  if  to  restore  it,  and  snatching  it  from  his  extended 
hand,  again. 

"Oh-h-h,  why  didn't  'e  take  it?  Didn't  want  it, 
did'e?" 

"  '  Jack  the  Giant  Killer,'  "  she  said,  affecting  to  read 
the  title.  "  What  do  you  s'posc  Jack  would  have 
done  if  a  young  lady  had  snatched  his  book  away? 
You  don't  know?  1  guess  you  don't,  stupid  !  "  looking 
piqued. 

"  There,  take  your  old  book  !  "  dashing  it  down  upon 
the  table  at  his  side.     "  I  beg  your  lordship's  pardon," 
(103) 


104  THE    PORTRAIT. 

with  mock  humility,  taking  up  the  book  again,  and 
approaching  him  with  exquisite  grace  ;  "  permit  me  to 
ask  your  pardon  for  my  rudeness,  and  restore  your 
book  to  you.  You  won't  forgive  me?  Do  now,  my 
poor  heart  will  break  all  in  one  small  piece,  and  I  shall 
burst  into  a  tear,  '•'  pressing  her  little  jewelled  hand, 
with  mock  agony,  upon  her  exquisite  bust. 

"  There  now,  let  us  kiss  and  make  up.  You  won't?  " 
Stepping  around  in  front  of  him,  and  placing  her  hand 
under-  his  chin,  and  lifting  his  face  up,  with  her  own 
dangerously  near.  "  Look  up  here  —  right  into  my 
two  eyes  —  do  you  know  what  I've  a  good  mind  to  do  ? 
I've  a  good  mind  to  kiss  }'ou,  right  on  your  two  stupid 
red  lips."  Fred  placed  his  hand  over  his  mouth. 

"  What  a  fool !  "  turning  awa}r,  and  a  moment  later 
returning  and  taking  the  tip  of  his  ear  between  her 
thumb  and  finger.  "Who  do  you  love?  Nobod}'? 
Who  do  you  like  best?  I  know,  —  Aunt  Sally,  since 
Lily  went.  Don't  mention  Lily  ?  Well,  I  won't,  poor 
little  doll-bab}r ;  she  '11  make  just  the  wife  for  you.  You 
don't  want  any  wife  ?  of  course  you  don't ;  and  3*ou  never 
will,  —  stupid.  You  sha'n't  dance  with  me  to  night. 
You  don't  want  to  ?  Yes  you  will,  when  jrou  see  Mr. 
Hyde,  and  Mr.  Young,  and  Ed  Baldwin,  and  all  that 
set  around  me,  —  when  you  can't  get  me  you'll  want  me." 
And  running  back,  and  stooping  down  before  him,  and 
looking  vexed  and  spitefully  into  his  face,  —  "  Your  a 
fool ! "  ran  out  of  the  room  with,  "  there  never  was 
such  a  boy,"  to  herself. 

Fred  knew  he  was  a  fool,  and  without  at  all  knowing  or 
even  suspecting  why,  poor  sweet  innocence.  He  knew, 
to  be  sure,  that  he  ought  to  jump  up  and  run,  and  romp 


THE   ROSE.  105 

with  her,  and  kiss  her,  and  play  at  lover  ;  hut  nothing 
in  the  world  seemed  to  him  so  stupid,  and  he  was  dis 
gusted,  as  he  had  been  a  dozen  times  before,  that  she 
should  tease  and  annoy  him  so.  He  had  found  that 
girls  were  hateful  as  a  class  —  "  made  to  bother  a  fel 
low  "  —  except  sweet  Lily,  whom  he  had  kissed,  and  as 
he  had  kissed  her  he  would  not  kiss  another,  least  of 
all  this  saucy  tomboy  of  a  Rose.  Oh,  silly  Adonis ! 
Oh,  slowest  and  greenest  of  springs  ! 

The  games  of  romps  played  off  by  the  audacious 
Rose  were  well  known  to  main"  of  the  household,  who 
had  rather  enjoyed  the  annoyance  which  they  occa 
sioned  that  young  gentleman.  The  Prophet  had  piqued 
her,  laughing  at  her  want  of  success  in  winning  some 
response  from  him  ;  while  the  poor  boy's  want  of  sen 
sibility  and  proper  appreciation  of  opportunity  which 
so  constantly  flouted  him,  in  the  shape  of  red  lips  and 
a  supple  waist,  exposed  him  to  not  a  little  prophetic 
ridicule  and  sarcasm.  The  open  manner  in  which  the 
piquant  Rose  made  her  playful  attacks,  relieved  them 
and  her  from  the  imputation  of  wantonness,  or  even 
levity,  in  the  minds  of  all  except  Aunt  Sally.  She 
did  not  like  it  at  all.  She  did  not  want  Fred  exposed 
to  the  annoyance,  and  whatever  danger  might  some 
time  come  of  it  as  he  grew  older.  She  did  not  feel  so 
certain  of  this  young  and  premature  woman ;  she 
thought  that  it  was  her  duty  to  put  a  stop  to  the  pres 
ent  state  of  things,  and  she  did  change  it  somewhat. 
Something  she  intimated  to  the  thoughtless  Rose,  who 
received  her  words  not  as  might  have  been  expected. 
Toward  Aunt  Sally  she  maintained  a  composed  de 
meanor  and  dignified  silence,  which  rather  discrn» 


10G  THE    PORTRAIT. 

fited  that  primitive  lady  ;  but  entering  the  room  of  poor 
Fred,  and  pointing  her  finger  at  him  :  "  And  so  'e  'itt'e 
baby-boy  tole  'e  aunty,  didn't  it?  well  'e  should  tell  'e 
aunty  'boutey  naughty  Rosy,  'es  'e  shonldc}-."  A  circle 
of  saucy  laughter  ran  about  him  ;  and  had  it  been  a 
circle  of  fire,  it  would  not  have  made  him  more  uncom 
fortable. 

Fred  had  not  the  slightest  notion  what  had  occurred, 
nor  of  course  to  what  she  alluded.  But  her  rid 
icule  was  so  keen  and  incisive,  that  its  sting  pierced 
him  through.  He  continued  to  act  upon  his  old  and 
only  line  of  defence, —  passive  and  silent  endurance  ;  but 
he  knew  that  his  poor  boy-face  was  in  a  flame,  and 
tears  of  helpless  rage  came  into  his  unchanging,  unwink 
ing  C3*es. 

The  girl  witnessed  the  change  with  surprise  ;  and 
regarding  him  a  moment,  she  approached,  and  in  a 
tone  of  sweet  contrition,  —  u  Fred,"  she  said,  "  forgive 
me ! "  and  left  him  to  his  reflections.  Afterwards 
when  she  met  him,  it  was  always  with  sweet  deference 
and  respect,  and  a  delicate  consideration,  not  alone  for  his 
feelings,  but  as  if  she  cared  for  his  good  opinion.  Fred 
was  surprised  to  find  how  pleasant  and  charming  her 
presence  had  become,  somehow,  and  he  now  observed, 
for  the  first  time,  what  a  developed  and  beautiful  wo 
man  she  had  grown  ;  and  as,  like  a  true  boy,  he  had 
always  vaguely,  and  afar  off  in  the  clouds  of  boy  dream 
land,  admired  the  largest  and  oldest  girl,  resting  his 
affections  upon  substance  and  weight,  so  now  he  began 
to  gather  the  haze  of  his  fancy  about  Rose  as  a  dim 
sort  of  a  halo  around  a  star  ;  and  this  transformation 
was  brought  about  by  a  girl  not  sixteen. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

THE    CRISIS. 

SPRING  was  approaching,  with  an  ominous  intima 
tion  that  it  would  bring  some  change  to  Fred. 
"Wait  till  spring,"  was  the  repl}-  to  any  unusual  request. 
He  wanted  to  go  to  Painesville.  "  You  shall  go  next 
spring,  perhaps."  He  had  never  been  in  Cleveland. 
"  Well,  if  he  was  all  right  in  the  spring  he  might." 
Fred  thought  this  referred  to  his  studies.  He  was  a 
very  good  grammarian,  and  made  good  progress  in 
arithmetic  ;  was  said  to  have  an  aptitude  for  language  ; 
was  a  fine  declaimer,  for  a  boy  ;  a  very  fine  reader  and 
a  good  penman,  —  all  for  his  age. 

Little  had  ever  been  said  to  him  about  religion  or 
the  church.  Of  course  he  lived  in  the  atmosphere  of 
zeal,  fanaticism  and  credulity,  of  deception,  cant  and 
hypocrisy.  Not  much  impression,  however,  had  been 
made  on  his  mind,  or  the  nebulous  matter  that  was  to 
harden  into  mind.  When  he  first  went  to  Kirtland,  a 
circle  was  formed  to  read  the  Book  of  Mormon,  and  to 
him  was  assigned  the  place  of  reader.  He  found  it 
dull ;  even  its  marvels  could  not  relieve  its  opaque 
dulness. 

It  is  said  that  even  the  gods,  when  they  try  a  fall 
with  mortal  stupidity,  are  worsted. 
(107) 


108  THE    PORTRAIT. 

He  was  nearly  fourteen,  and  it  was  said  that  he  must 
take  a  position  ;  in  short,  he  was  given  to  understand 
that,  by  the  marked  act  of  baptism,  he  must  enroll  him 
self  unconditionally  with  the  saints.  It  was  explained 
to  him,  that  when  the  temple  was  completed, 'a  new 
service  would  be  inaugurated ;  that  there  would  be  a 
new  class  of  }'oung  priests,  with  special  privileges,  and 
for  whose  duties  special  training  was  required ;  that  he 
was  destined  as  the  first  of  this  new  order,  and  that  he 
and  his  associates,  seven  in  number,  were  to  enter  upon 
their  novitiate  on  a  day  in  March  not  yet  named.  The 
repressive  life  of  the  student  had  formed  in  him  the 
habit  of  taking  things  coolly,  and  this  announcement 
was  met  with  more  than  his  usual  frigidity.  He  said 
he  would  think  about  it. 

"  Think  about  it !  "  repeated  the  secretary,  with 
amazement. 

"  I  said  I  would,"  coolly. 

"  There  ain't  but  one  who  thinks  here,"  was  the 
answer. 

"  Yes  there  is  ;  I  think,  some,"  quietly. 

"  You !  who  the  devil  are  you,  anywaj7,  I'd  like  to 
know?" 

"  So  would  I,"  a  little  sadly. 

With  a  stare  of  increased  amazement,  the  messenger 
of  the  will  of  the  presidency  left,  for  it  was  of  sufficient 
importance  for  the  action  of  that  nominal  body. 

The  next  day  the  Prophet  took  Fred  from  the 
dinner  table  to  a  sort  of  study,  and  in  a  kindly 
manner  made  known  to  him  his  destination  :  in  a  few 
days  he  would  be  baptized,  and  enter  upon  a  different 
course ;  he  was  specially  called  to  it,  his  career  would 


THE   CRISIS.  109 

be  distinguished,  and  finally,  ho  would  be  one  of  the 
loaders  of  the  saints.  It  was  the  only  time  he  had 
ever  seriously  conferred  with  Fred.  At  the  close  of 
his  communication  Fred  was  silent,  and  the  Prophet 
for  the  first  time  noticed  something  peculiar  in  his 
look,  that  a  little  irritated  him.  He  did  not  stop  to 
consider  what  it  was  ;  he  was  not  given  to  much  con 
sideration  in  personal  matters  of  this  sort ;  nobody 
questioned  or  opposed  his  will. 

Fred  had  a  sort  of  liking  for  the  gay,  good-natured, 
easy-going  Prophet,  and  had  ever  seen  him  in  the 
inside  life  of  his  household  ;  yet  by  that  sort  of  instinct 
which  governs  the  likings  of  children,  he  was  kept  from 
any  close  intimacy  by  a  repulsion  that  he  did  not 
understand,  and  never  thought  of  examining. 

"  I've  left  you  too  much  to  your  own  old  Adam  ways," 
said  the  Prophet,  bending  his  brows  upon  him  with 
unwonted  sevcrit}-.  "  You  know,  boy,  that  we  can  cast 
out  devils,  if  need  be."  He  now  unmistakably  saw 
something  in  the  youth's  eyes. —  the  same  that  Sam 
Warden  saw,  and  that  haunted  John  Green,  and  that 
flashed  out  into  the  face  of  Jake.  "Whatever  it  was,  it 
looked  to  the  Prophet  like  the  spirit  of  courage,  that 
had  already  reached  the  stage  of  defiance,  lie  had 
encountered  it  in  two  or  three  women,  and  had  found 
that  the  way  to  deal  with  it  was  not  to  assail  it. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  he  said,  blandly,  and  laying  his 
hand  on  Fred's  head,  "we  cannot  spare  you,  nor  must 
you  leave  your  studies  ;  what  a  handsome  yountr  man 
you  are  becoming  !  The  ladies  would  ciy  if  we  had.  to 
send  you  to  the  store;  Rose  would  break  her  little 
heart."  And  picking  up  Fred's  soft,  but  large  and  finely- 


110  THE    PORTRAIT. 

formed  hand,  and  admiring  its  texture,  —  "  This  was  not 
made  for  a  stone  hammer  or  a  yardstick  ;  we  shall  have 
no  trouble,"  lightly  and  gayty  he  withdrew. 

The  next  da}*,  Rigdon,  whose  sins  had  been  purged 
away  by  special  act,  so  that  he  could  be  the  equal  of 
the  Prophet  in  cvenTthing  but  the  prophetic  spirit,  the 
monopoly  of  which  was  to  be  perpetually  enjoyed  by 
Joseph,  sent  for  Fred,  and  in  a  frank,  bland,  seductive 
way  went  over  with  the  whole  ground,  and  then  he 
reminded  him  that  they  had  taken  him  literally  from 
a  stable,  housed  and  led,  clothed  and  pampered  him, 
and  educated  him  like  a  prince,  because  he  had  been 
called,  so  that  he  felt  they  might  now  urge  that  they 
had  a  claim  upon  him.  Fred  winced  at  this.  But 
then,  in  his  darkened  mind,  he  thought  it  was  funny 
that  if  he  was  called,  he  should  not  be  given  the  mind 
to  go. 

Rigdon  went  on  to  say  that  it  was  his  duty  to  obe}r 
the  gospel,  after  which  the  way  would  open  to  him  ; 
that  he  was  old  enough  to  choose  and  have  a  mind 
about  it ;  adding,  "  To-morrow,  perhaps,  you  will  be 
asked  the  direct  question,  —  '  Will  you  obey  the  gospel 
by  the  outward  sign  of  baptism?'"  and  bade  him  good- 
morning. 

Fred  was  quite  prepared  to  answer  then,  but  rcturn- 
ing  the  bow  of  the  president,  he  withdrew. 

As  he  went  out  he  was  joined  in  the  corridor  l^y  Rose, 
who  came  up  with  a  little  of  her  old  assurance,  hut 
none  of  the  old  banter,  and  passed  her  arm  through 
his,  clasping  her  little  dimpled  hands  on  his  arm. 
Her  touch  had  a  strange,  sweet  charm  for  him.  Look 
ing  up  a  little  timidly  in  his  face,  she  said,  "  Fred,  you 


THE    CRISIS.  Ill 

will  be  baptized  ;  I  know  you  will ;  we've  all  been, — 
even  sweet  Lily  was  baptized,  —  say  you  will!  you 
don't  know  how  much  we  all  wish  it.  And  you  are 
quite  a  man  now,"  dropping  her  voice  and  head  with  a 
bJush.  The  little  curled  head  came  very  naturally 
upon  his  tall  shoulder  ;  and  it  was  all  so  like  the  things 
in  the  stories ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  ought  to 
pass  his  arm  about  the  marvellous  little  waist,  made  to 
be  cinctured  with  a  lover's  arm. 

Then  she  raised  the  little  warm  face,  and  turned  and 
looked  up  into  his  e}-es.  "  What  is  it  men  see  in  3'our 
e}-es?  I  only  see  coldness,"  with  a  fainting  tone.  The 
sauciuess  had  gone  out  of  hers  ;  there  was  only  a  sweet 
pleading  in  them,  and  her  breath,  like  a  faint  incense, 
came  warmly  upon  his  lips. 

"And  you  will  say  Yes,  and  we  shall  all  so  love  you, 
—  and,  Fred  —  "  the  little  head  went  down  decidedly 
on  the  shoulder.  Voices  came  from  a  near,  open  door  ; 
and  the  unconscious  maiden  passed  it  with  a  natural, 
gay  nonchalance,  utterly  bewildering  to  poor  Fred. 

There  was  another  intensely  interested  observer. 
Aunt  Sally  still  filled  the  important  post  of  house 
keeper,  attentive  to  her  duties,  prudent,  discreet, 
trusted,  and  in  some  vague,  far-off  way,  feared.  Ap 
parently  absorbed  and  preoccupied,  and  unobserving, 
nothing  escaped  her  about  the  household,  and  she  was 
the  first  to  note  the  change  in  the  manner  of  Rose 
toward  Fred.  Nor  was  she  for  a  moment  deceived. 
Poor  blind,  unseeing,  unknowing,  unthinking  boy,  only 
beginning  vaguely  to  feel  the  approaching  revolution 
that  was  so  mysteriously  taking  place  in  him,  as  the 
new  forces  of  Nature  were  beginning  faintly  to  pulsate 


112  THE    PORTRAIT. 

through  his  system  !  Already  he  was  beginning  to  lose 
the  control  of  his  voice,  the  richer  volume  of  which,  fail 
ing  to  find  utterance  through  the  unchanged,  childish 
organs,  would  shatter  itself  into  piping  quavers,  or  fall 
to  a  grura  bass,  much  to  his  surprise,  and  often  to  his 
anno}'ance.  Poor  boy  !  he  was  becoming  a  man  ;  and 
only  thought  he  had  taken  a  funn}'  cold,  all  unaware  of 
the  fever  that  would  follow  it. 

This,  too,  had  Aunt  Sail}*  noted  ;  she  knew  also,  and 
better  than  he,  what  the  Prophet  wanted  of  him,  and 
guessed  somewhat  the  reasons  wiry.  She  knew,  too, 
the  means  that  would  be  employed  to  secure  that  pur 
pose,  and  looked  darkly  at  Rose,  and  anxiously,  appre 
hensively,  at  Fred.  She  had  not  anticipated  that  the 
final  ordeal  would  be  reached  until  further  lapse  of 
time.  But  how  could  she  explain,  how  warn,  how 
inform  and  put  on  his  guard  the  unconscious  boy  who 
had  been  walking  about  this  prison-house,  for  all  these 
months,  eating  and  sleeping,  caring  for  and  being 
caressed  by  these  deadly  foes,  who  might  poison  his 
food,  and  who  had  poisoned  the  air  he  breathed?  Not 
in  this  order,  but  brokenlj*  and  fragmentarily,  all  these 
thoughts  had  come  to  her ;  and  on  this  day,  had  she 
been  the  object  of  suspicion  or  of  observation,  care  and 
anxiety  would  have  been  seen  on  her  strong  brow. 

Deep  in  the  following  night,  Fred  was  awakened  by 
Sally,  who  brought  a  lamp  into  his  room,  and  began 
with  some  needless  words  to  allay  any  apprehension 
he  might  feel  at  her  intrusion.  Apprehension  was  the 
last  emotion  likeh*  to  arise  in  him. 

"•  Fred,  I  want  to  ask  ye  one  thing.  Do  ye  trust 
me,  Fred?" 


THE    CRISIS.  113 

"  All  the  time,  aunt}-." 

"Bless  ye!  Well,  then,  —  'ave  ye  been  called?  — 
asked  to  be  babtized, —  ye  know?" 

"  I  was  told  I  would  be  asked  to-morrow." 

"To-morrer?  Massy!  So  soon?  Do  ye  want  ter 
be?" 

"  No." 

"Will  ye?" 

"No." 

"  They  may  compel  ye." 

"Compel  me?"  with  immense  and  contemptuous 
incredulity. 

"  Yer  a  boy,  Fred,  an'  don't  know ;  they  may  force 

ye." 

"  Force  me?  Let  'em  try.  They  may  drown  me  !  " 
with  a  frown  of  angry  defiance. 

"  Ye  ma}*  see  a  viz}*in." 

"  I  saw  plent}-  on  'em   when  I  was  sick,"  quietb/. 

"  Do  ye  like  bein'  yere?  " 

"  Not  much.     Why  do  you  ask,  aunty?  " 

"  If  ye's  to  go,  whar  'd  ye  go  to  ?  " 

"Somewhere,  anywhere,  —  to  Uncle  Bill  Skinner's, 
perhaps." 

"  They'd  git  ye  thar." 

"  H'm,  —  let  'em  try." 

Aunt  Sally  stood  silent  a  moment  in  thought: 
"  Fred  ! " 

"Yes,  aunty." 

"D'ye  like  ennybody  yere?  anybody  in  petic'ler, 
mor'n  ye  do  other  folks,  —  Rose  ?  " 

"  I  like  her  better  than  I  used  to,"  was  the  straight 
forward,  unhesitating  answer. 
8 


114  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"  Fred"  —much  relieved  —  "  d'ye  think  this  yer's  a 
good  place  ?  " 

"  Not  very." 

"Fred?" 

"  Aunty." 

"  D'ye  ever  pr.'iy  ?  " 

"  My  mother  learned  me  to  pra}'." 

"  Yer  mother  ?     Oh,  Betsey  Warden  !  " 

"Was  she  my  mother?"  earnestly. 

"  Bless  yer  soul,  what  a  question !  'Ow  should  I 
know?" 

"  Tliere,  good-night ; "  and  she  went  away  much  com 
forted. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

THE    CALL    OF    FRED. 

THE  next  morning  the  Prophet  was  in  a  semi- 
prophetic  state,  very  unusual  in  the  household. 
Fred  was  called  to  the  large  common  room  adjoining 
the  breakfast-room,  and  before  that  meal,  where  the 
Prophet  addressed  him  in  a  solemn  voice. 

"It  is  a  goodly  youth.  Let  the  spirit  call  in  its 
chosen  way  ;  "  and  laying  his  hand  upon  the  unmoved 
boy's  head,  —  "Receive  grace  to  hear  and  heed,"  he 
said  ;  and  spreading  abroad  his  hands,  in  an  impressive 
manner,  he  pronounced  an  invocation  and  breathed  a 
benediction.  At  the  action  of  his  hands,  all  the  assem 
bled  household  reverently  bowed,  and  then  took  their 
places  at  the  table,  when  the  Prophet,  with  his  own 
hands,  broke  and  blessed  the  bread,  saying :  "  This, 
with  water,  be  the  food  of  the  household  of  the  Lord 
this  day  ;  and  may  it  become  the  bread  of  life." 

To  say  that  Fred  was  much  impressed  by  this  simple 
and  imposing  ritual,  is  merely  true  :  and.  impassive  as 
he  had  become,  he  looked  upon  the  Prophet  quite  in 
amazement,  lie  almost  divided  with  him  the  attention 
of  the  awed  spectators. 

The  Prophet  remained  about  the  house  all  day  in 
rapt,  austere  silence.  Xo  work,  not  the  lightest  chore, 
(115) 


116  THE    PORTRAIT. 

no  word,  not  even  a  whisper,  was  done  or  said  ;  but 
in  silence  or  stealth  the  inmates  sat  or  moved  through 
the  house,  till  nightfall,  as  if  under  a  frozen  spell. 

The  day  was  dark  and  rain}-,  and"  the  night  came  on 
with  snow  and  wind.  The  blinds  of  the  whole  house 
had  remained  closed  during  the  day,  and  after  night 
fall  the  darkness  within  was  pitch}". 

It  came  upon  Fred,  in  his  own  room,  on  the  upper 
floor,  and  alone.  He  was  a  little  faint  for  want  of 
food,  and  not  without  a  vague  sense  of  something 
impending  ;  but  his  pulse  was  at  its  usual  beat,  and 
his  veins,  like  his  will,  unmoved.  All  the  day  long  his 
memory  had  wandered  back  over  his  shadowed,  strait 
ened,  stinted  life,  and  found  little  to  linger  upon  with 
pleasure.  That  little  boat  came  again  and  again  into 
his  mind,  and  he  wondered  at  the  impulse  that  induced 
him  to  cast  it  to  the  fortune  of  the  river.  Whither 
had  it  been  carried  ?  Had  some  happy  boy  picked  it 
tip  and  kept  it?  Had  it  stranded  and  rotted  by  the 
river's  side?  Had  it  been  fortunate,  and  swam  out  to 
the  far-off  great  lake,  which  he  had  never  seen  save 
from  the  hills  at  the  north?  Its  little  fortune  was 
like  him,  and  the  impulse  came  to  leap  into  the  outside 
current,  and  let  it  carry  him  along.  Then  the  story 
came  into  his  mind  of  the  youth  who,  one  bright 
summer  morning,  was  loitering  by  a  river  side,  when 
he  came  upon  a  little  boat,  into  which  he  stepped,  and 
pushing  it  into  the  current,  committed  himself  to  it ; 
and  it  bore  him  down,  past  flowery  banks  and  dark 
forests,  past  craggy  steeps,  that  threw  sombre  shadows 
over  him,  and  finally  it  landed  him  near  a  dark,  battle- 
mented  old  castle,  which  the  river  protected  o,n  the 


THE    CALL    OF    FRED.  117 

water-side.  The  youth  stepped  ashore  and  entered  the 
old  castle,  in  and  around  whieh  was  neither  voice,  nor 
sound,  nor  sign  of  living  thing ;  mould,  dust,  neg 
lect  and  desertion,  held  joint  sway  over  all.  He 
passed  an  open  portal,  and  picked  a  rusty  dagger  from 
the  stone  floor,  and  while  he  was  curiously  observing  it  — 
drop  of  red  blood  distilled  from  its  point,  and  —  a 
form  in  white  entered  Fred's  room  with  an  unheard 
step,  which  so  coincided  with  the  rapt  current  of  thought, 
revery  and  mental  vision  of  the  }*outh,  that  when  a 
voice  said,  —  "  The  spirit  leads,  follow,"  he  arose  with 
out  hesitation,  and  laying  down  the  dagger,  as  he 
seemed  to  do,  he  followed  in  silence.  Out  down  the 
corridor,  down  a  stairway,  through  other  passage- 
waj's,  up  other  stairs,  through  doors  all  open,  and  in 
the  darkness  all  strange,  slowly  they  proceeded,  grop 
ing  and  hesitating,  on  Fred's  part,  from  the  uncertainty 
of  the  way.  At  last  a  curtain  parted,  and  Fred  found 
Limself  he  knew  not  where.  A  dim  light,  like  that  of 
the  ghosts  of  many  lamps,  filled  the  room,  if  such  it 
was,  utterly  unlike  anything  he  had  ever  seen.  A 
leasant  warmth  and  a  faint  odor,  as  the  fragrance  of 
f-esh  violets  pervaded  the  place.  Fred's  conductor, 
pointing  to  a  low,  spacious  couch,  motioned  him  to  sit ; 
and  indicated  a  low  table  near  the  sofa,  on  which  was 
a  goblet  of  water,  and  some  bits  of  broken  bread. 
The  sight  of  the  food  recalled  the  healthful  sensation 
of  hunger,  and  taking  up  a  piece  he  eagerly  ate  a 
fow  mouthfuls,  moistening  his  mouth  with  the  limpid 
contents  of  the  goblet.  He  fancied  that  there  was  a 
1  eculiar,  but  not  unpleasant,  taste  in  the  food  or  water, 
and  laying  himself  back  on  the  luxurious  couch,  mused 


1  18  THE    PORTRAIT. 

dreamiVyon  his  strange  surroundings.  As  he  lay,  there 
came  the  sound  as  of  heavy  drapery  moving  and  rust 
ling  in  a  slight  breeze,  pleasant  to  the  whilom,  over 
wrought,  but  now  quieted  senses  of  the  j*outh.  Finally 
the  light  died  out,  and  darkness  in  heavy  folds  seemed 
to  fall  about  him,  and  wrap  his  benumbed  perceptions 
in  almost  oblivion.  Strange  forms  hovered  for  a  mo 
ment  across  the  fading  margin  of  consciousness,  and 
the  Lily,  more  beautiful  than  earth,  but  shadow}',  with 
her  lips  to  his,  and  then,  —  utter  nothing.  *  *  *  * 
Was  he  sleeping  or  waking?  was  he  still  on  earth,  for 
earth  never  saw,  even  its  shadow,  nor  painter  in  dream, 
nor  devotee  in  ecstasy.  There  in  a  rosy  light  it  was, 
not  wavering  nor  shadowy,  but  firm  and  real,  and 
within  his  reach.  Was  there  "ever  such  a  face,  trans 
parent,  yet  suffused,  such  eyes  and  lips?  And  all  about 
the  glorious  head  —  the  wondrous  head  —  such  a  cloud 
of  marvellous  golden  hair,  flooding  down  full  of  spangles, 
and  confined  with  a  golden  circle.  He  dared  not  drop 
his  e}-es  from  the  wondrous  face,  3'et,  in  the  bright 
radiance  which  surrounded  him,  what  was  not  given  to 
his  gaze  !  The  left  shoulder  was  veiled  ;  from  it  a  bal- 
drick  passed  over  the  left  bosom,  and  below  the  right, 
sustaining  a  shining  robe  of  white.  The  right  shoul 
der,  with  the  loveliness  that  only  haunts  dreams,  would 
assert  itself  on  the  entranced  vision  of  the  cold,  pure 
boy,  and  thus  framed  in  the  rose-tinted  folds,  held 
back  by  one  hand,  this  marvellous  wonder  stood.  As 
the  eyes  looked  steadily  into  those  of  the  boy,  a  deeper 
tint  seemed  to  light  up  the  celestial  face.  "  Yon  are 
called  !  you  are  called  !  3-011  are  called  !  "  At  first  low, 
and  ravishingly  sweet,  then  louder  and  firmer,  and  then 


THE    CALL    OF    FRED.  119 

in  a  tone  that  seemed  to  command  as  well  as  announce. 
The  right  hand  extended  toward  the  youth  a  slender 
white  wand,  with  a  wavering  motion,  —  the  light  faded, 
the  vision  melted,  and  the  heavy  folds  of  darkness 
again  enveloped  him. 

Was  he  asleep  or  awake?  Dead  or  alive,  in  trance 
or  dream?  He  could  neither  think  nor  remember. 
Had  the  fever  returned?  Was  it  an  angel?  Did  time 
move  or  stand  still?  He  had  neither  the  will  nor  power 
to  move.  Then  unconsciousness  ;  and  then  the  vision 
of  his  fever,  strange  foliage  and  flowers,  and  palm- 
trees,  and  the  radiant,  happy  face,  and  the  name,  heard 
only  in  dreams  ;  then  suddenly  came  the  face  and  voice 
of  Aunt  Sally,  speaking  the  name  of  Fred,  and  the  day 
changed  to  a  lamp. 

This  was  real.  She  laid  her  hand  strongly  upon 
him.  "  Fred,  Fred,  'wake  !  "  low  and  earnest,  —  "  come 
—  this  minnit !  "  With  the  touch  of  her  hand,  the 
charm  was  broken  ;  he  arose  with  an  effort,  and  Jell 
back  weak  and  heavy,  as  if  in  a  lethargy.  There  was 
a  ringing  in  his  ears,  and  a  dry  burning  in  his  throat. 
He  would  have  drank  from  the  goblet,  but  found  that 
it,  too,  had  disappeared. 

Partly  dragged, and  partly  walking,  Fred  went  hurriedly 
down  a  narrow,  spiral  stairway,  down  and  down,  till  he 
met  a  current  of  sweet,  fresh,  cold  air,  and  soon  stood 
on  the  ground.  A  few  steps  more,  and  he  found  him 
self  in  the  kitchen,  where  Sally  gave  him  a  bowl  of 
milk,  which  he  drank  at  a  breath,  and  felt  refreshed, 
though  still  dazed  and  uncertain. 

"Fred,  for  the  massy*  sake!  What  'appened? 
What  did  ye  see  and  'ear?"  Whnt  a  wave  of  shadow 


120  THE    PORTRAIT. 

and  darkness  now  lay  between  the  waking,  real  present, 
and  the  vision  and  dreams  of  the  hour  ago  ! 

"I  must  have  dreamed  strange  old  fever  dreams.  I 
wonder  if  my  head  is  all  right  ?  "  shaking  it. 

"  You  look  scared,  an'  sort  o'  wild  !  " 

"Do  I?" 

"Fred,  this  ycr's  a  wicked,  bad  place,  —  don't  3-6 
want  to  leave  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I'll  go  now.     I  won't  sta}'  here  another  hour." 

"War'll  ye  go." 

"  Where  will  I?  Anywhere,  everywhere,  Aunt  Sally, 
—  tell  me  who  and  what  I  am?  You  know,  —  don't 
you  ?  " 

"  Lord  !  how  excited  ye  ar' !  'ow  do  I  know?  Jar- 
vis  won't  tell." 

"Jai-vis!     AVho's— -!" 

"John,  —  John  Green!  Oh,  we've  all  changed!" 
confused  and  distressed. 

"  Aunt  Sally  —  !  " 

"  'Ush  !  'ush  !  they'll  miss  ye." 

"  I  don't  care.     Let  'em  come,"  defiantly. 

"  Fred,  see  !  'ore's  a  bundle  o'  yer  things.  'Ere's 
3*er  cloak,  an'  boots,  and  cap,  an'  'ere  in  this  basket  's 
nice  things  for  3-e.  Mebbe  they'll  follow  ye,  —  ye  can 
eat  as  ye  go.  Pore,  pore,  'omeless  boy  !  "  now  break 
ing  down. 

"I  don't  care  if  they  do  follow  me,"  coarsely ;  "I 
wish  they  would." 

"  I've  thought  it  over  'n  over.  It's  near  day.  'Ere's 
a  little  money  for  ye.  Ye'd  better  go  to  Mantua,  and, 
Fred,  ye'll  'ear  from  me  when  I  know.  Stay  thar, 


THE    CALL    OF    FRED.  121 

ware  I  can  find  ye  ;  as  sure  as  the  Lord  ye'll  'ear  from 
me,  when  I  know." 

The  boy  had  taken  another  copious  draft  of  milk,  and 
swallowed  some  choice  bits  of  cold  ham.  He  now  put 
on  his  boots,  —  there  was  his  rich  cloth  cloak,  with  its 
fur  collar,  his  fur  muffler,  and  seal  cap,  his  warm  gaunt- 
leted  gloves,  and  light-packed  valise.  He  lifted  and 
poised  its  weight. 

"It  'as  as  many  shirts  an' things  as  I  could  git  in 
it,  an'  'ere's  all  the  money  I  can  raise,"  putting  a 
small  purse  in  his  hands.  "  Get  across  to  t'other  stage 
route,  from  Chardon  ;  an'  —  oh,  Fred  —  yer  the  thing 
1  love  best  on  airth,  ye  lonely,  'ouseless  wanderer  ;  God 
will  some  time  bless  ye  !  " 

A  great,  dry  gasp  arose,  and  was  choked  down  by  the 
poor  bo}".  For  a  moment,  the  strong,  true  arms  of 
Sail}'  were  about  him  ;  then  he  found  himself  alone  in 
the  wet  slush  of  snow  and  mud,  traversing  a  lane  that 
led  out  from  the  rear  of  the  house,  to  the  Chillicothe 
road. 

With  the  directness  of  his  nature,  Fred  walked 
boldly,  though  rapidly,  along  the  street.  The  storm 
had  subsided,  and  the  approach  of  day  was  lighting  up 
the  eastern  sky.  He  felt  a  little  sick  at  the  stomach, 
and  heavy  about  the  head,  and  at  first  his  step  was  a 
little  unsteady  ;  and  the  cold  air  struck  him  with  a  sort 
of  nervous  chill.  The  exercise  of  walking  quickened 
the  circulation  to  a  pleasant  glow.  The  respiration  of 
the  pure  cold  air  seemed  to  restore  the  wonted  tone  of 
his  strong,  healthy  system  ;  and  above  all,  the  first 
joyous  and  exultant  sensation  of  freedom,  of  liberty, 
of  escape,  flashed  electrically  over  his  nerves,  and  he 


122  THE    PORTRAIT. 

seemed  to  tread  the  air.  With  what  a  wonderful  glory 
the  eastern  sky  was  glowing,  as  if  the  sun  was  hasten 
ing  up  to  greet  and  cheer  him !  How  limitless  was 
the  expanse  that  bent  so  far  off,  and  so  free  over  him, 
\vhile  the  very  earth  sprea'd  and  stretched  and  ran  out, 
in  endless  perspective,  asking  him  to  traverse  it ! 

For  a  mile  or  two  the  road  gradual!}- rises  to  the 
south,  and  from  its  elevated  summit  Fred  turned  and 
cast  his  eye  over  the  little  huddle  of  houses  and  huts, 
of  shops  and  cots,  and  sheds  and  hovels,  that  la}-  but 
a  step  below  him,  in  the  midst  of  which,  dark  and  sol 
itary,  arose  the  house  of  the  Prophet,  and  the  home  of 
the  presidency,  with  the  Tower  of  Prophecy  at  one 
angle.  There  was  Aunt  Sally,  and  Rose,  and  the 
Prophet,  and  there  was  the  scene  of  vision,  dream 
and  trance,  fresh  in  his  still  distempered  fancy,  and 
bright  and  distinct  in  the  grasp  of  young  memory. 
Above  all,  and  not  far  oft',  seemed  the  ridge  of  the 
lake,  vast  and  boundless  as  the  ocean,  from  which  his 
eye  fell  again  upon  the  still  sleeping  town,  from  which, 
with  its  shows  and  shams,  its  pulleys,  springs  and  cur 
tains,  he  now  turned  forever.  Mantua  was  twenty-eight 
or  thirty  miles  away,  and  all  around  him  was  the  bright, 
free,  happy  world. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

TWICE    BOUND. 

IN  the  north-east  corner  of  Mantua  was  the  farm  of 
Deacon  Carman.  At  the  beginning  of  the  century 
he  had  followed  his  elder  brother  into  the  woods,  and 
chopped  and  logged,  and  burned  and  cleared,  and 
fenced  and  built ;  hunted  with  the  Indians,  and  fought 
against  them  ;  married  and  reared  children ;  and  now 
still  hale  and  vigorous,  moral  and  abstemious,  honest 
and  religious,  he  had  the  year  before  taken  the  pre 
miums  for  the  best  farm,  and  for  the  largest  yield  of 
corn.  His  farm  lay  on  beautiful  slopes,  rolling  swells, 
and  wide  vales  of  wonderfully  fertile  land.  An  east 
and  west  road  bounded  it  southerly,  extending  into  the 
wooded  hills  of  Hiram  east,  which  it  traversed  as  a 
trail,  crossing  the  Cuyahoga  River  at  the  Rapids,  while 
a  north  and  south  highway  divided  it,  and  led  into  the 
extensive  woods  of  Auburn  and  Welchfield,  north. 

A  fine  two-story  farm-house,  barns  and  out-buildings, 
occupied  the  north-west  angle,  made  by  these  inter 
secting  roads,  in  front  of  which  was  a  wonderful  pear- 
tree,  flanked  by  a  thrifty  growth  of  cherry-trees  of 
many  varieties.  The  yard  was  neatly  fenced  and 
clean,  the  house  one  of  the  best  in  the  township  ;  in  the 
rear  of  it  were  extensive  orchards,  enclosed  fields,  aud 
(123) 


1  24  THE    PORTRAIT. 

broad  pasture  lands.  Below  the  highway,  to  the  east, 
spread  out  wide  and  beautiful  meadows,  through  which 
flowed  a  stream,  formed  by  numerous  springs  that 
arose  on  the  farm. 

In  that  far-off  time,  no  more  valuable,  or  a  better- 
cared  for,  domain  acknowledged  the  ownership  of  any 
single  proprietor  in  all  that  region,  now  rapidly  filling 
up,  and  growing  in  wealth  and  beaut}'. 

Mrs.  Carman,  a  stoutish,  comely  dame,  of  a  little 
better  origin  than  the  average,  had  a  still  bright  face, 
flashing  black  eyes,  and  a  temper  that  also  flashed  at 
times.  The  eldest  daughter,  Sarah,  was  a  tall,  well-grown, 
honest,  handsome  country  lass,  of  fifteen.  The  only  son, 
Elias,  was  a  square,  broad-browed,  promising  boy  of 
twelve  ;  and  Martha,  the.  youngest,  was  a  dark,  demure 
little  maid  of  eight.  These,  with  hired  help  —  men  on 
the  farm,  and  spinning-girls  —  constituted  the  family. 

In  those  days  of  practical  democracy,  the  hired 
young  men  and  women  were  from  families  of  the  same 
level  with  the  master,  and  had  the  usual  privileges  and 
consideration  of  the  regular  members  of  the  family ; 
and  it  excited  no  comment  when  the  eldest  daughter 
of  the  Chief  Justice  of  the  State,  a  resident  of  this 
region,  with  the  entire  approbation  of  her  family,  mar 
ried  the  hired  man  on  her.  father's  farm. 

In  this  family,  to  work  on  this  farm  as  a  bound  ap 
prentice,  Fred  willingiy  found  himself,  a  few  claj's  after 
his  escape  from  the  saints. 

He  had  gone  at  once  to  his  old  friend  William  Skin 
ner,  who  had  consulted  Fenton,  Sim  Shelden,  and 
especialby  Judge  Carman,  the  elder  brother  of  Scth  ; 
and  it  was  thought  that  under  the  purview  of  the  stut- 


TWICE    BOUND.  125 

utes,  the  trustees  of  the  township  had  power  to  bind 
him  out,  as  a  destitute,  homeless  waif,  who  had  as 
much  business  to  be  in  Mantua  as  anywhere,  though  it 
was  more  than  doubted  that  he  had  any  business  to  be 
at  all.  Deacon  Carman  had  been  applied  to,  and  was 
willing  to  try  him.  Aunt  Maiy,  as  Mrs.  Carman  was 
called  in  her  neighborhood,  came  into  the  arrangement 
with  pronounced  reluctance  and  great  misgiving. 

She  did  not  know  about  this  bo}r,  who  came  out  of 
the  dirt,  and  nobody  knew  where,  or  how,  he  crawled 
out,  and  who  had  lived  two  years  with  the  Mormons, 
and  nobody  knew  what  he  had  learned  there,  or  why 
he  left.  She  finally  gave  in  ;  and  with  the  same  for 
malities  and  provisions  with  which  Sam  Warden  had 
bound  him  to  John  Green,  the  authorities  made  him 
the  thrall  of  the  good,  pious,  and  honest  Carman. 
Being  now  of  nominal  discretion,  Fred  had  signed  the 
indentures,  and  out  of  abundant  caution,  the  mark  of 
Sam  was  also  secured  to  the  instrument.  It  was 
thought  that  possibly  John  Green  might  attempt  to 
reclaim  him,  and  hence  the  action  in  the  premises. 

On  his  first  arrival,  madam  regarded  him  with  a 
wholesome  and  uncomfortable  distrust,  and  for  a  long 
time  looked  at  him  askance.  She  carefully  kept  count 
of  the  spoons,  and  intimated  to  her  trusting  and  simple- 
hearted  spouse  the  necessity  of  keeping  the  saddles, 
bridles,  and  halters  under  lock  and  key.  The  fact  that 
the  poor  lad  was  tall  and  well-formed,  and  had  a  frank, 
honest,  open  boy-face,  and  was  so  quiet,  and  gentle, 
and  respectful,  so  seemingly  well-bred  and  modest, 
was  at  first  all  against  him.  Then  his  hands  were 
white,  and  he'  brought  with  him  broadcloth  clothes, 


126  THE   PORTRAIT. 

and  seemed  so  anxious  to  do,  that  she  was  qxiite  de 
cided  that  he  never  would.  He  would  grow  up  there 
with  her  girls  and  Elias ;  and  there  was  always  some 
thing  in  persons  of  his  sort  that  was  sure  to  come  out, 
and  often  in  the  line  of  their  parents'  offending.  It 
was  not  here  as  in  New  London,  in  her  father's  famil}', 
where  a  bound  boy  had  a  place  which  was  not  in  the 
family  circle.  "Well,  she  could  only  trust  in  Provi 
dence, —  and  what  was  practically  much  more  effect 
ive,  she  would  watch  and  manage,  and  whatever  might 
happen,  she  would  at  least  have  this  enduring  and 
accustomed  comfort, —  "I  always  told  you  just  how 
'twould  turn  out." 

To  the  kind,  true,  honest-heai'ted  Sarah,  he  was  at 
first  a  pleasant  surprise,  and  then  an  object  of  steady, 
friendly  regard.  She  had  not  then  been  away  at  school, 
and  her  "Windham  cousins  did  not  gain  much  by  her 
mental  comparison.  He  was  not  noisy  and  rough,  nor 
sulky  and  shy  and  awkward.  He  was  quiet  and  gentle, 
and  so  anxious  to  oblige  and  please.  It  did  not  occur 
to  her  that  he  was  handsome,  or  looked  well ;  she  could 
look  right  into  eyes  as  honest  as  her  own,  and  she 
trusted  him.  Besides,  he  helped  her  about  her  flower 
beds.  Elias  was  not,  at  first,  inclined  to  consort  much 
with  him  ;  but  he  could  manage  horses,  knew  all  about 
guns,  and  the  woods,  and  seemed  brave  and  fearless  ; 
so  that  he  soon  grew  to  the  proportions  of  a  hero. 

Uncle  Seth  took  him  with  confidence  and  trust.  The 
poor  youth  had  much  to  learn,  and  was  not  very  quick, 
or  very  ingenious  or  inventive  ;  but  he  was  true  and 
docile.  Whatever  he  was  told  to  do  he  did,  and  as  he 
was  told ;  no  obstacle  hindered,  and  no  difficulty  dis- 


TWICE    BOUXD.  127 

couragecl  him.  If  a  hindrance  arose,  his  courage  and 
determination  arose  with  it,  when  his  mind  became 
quick  and  active.  Before  he  had  been  there  a  month, 
the  old  man  was  satisfied  that  there  was  not  a  hair  or 
fibre  in  his  whole  make-up  that  was  not  true  and  manly. 

They  found  him  disinclined  to  speak  of  himself  or  his 
past  life.  lie  never  mentioned  the  Greens,  and  avoided 
all  reference  to  the  Mormons.  The}'  were  surprised  at 
his  intelligence,  and  the  extent  of  his  reading,  and  were 
glad  to  note  his  avidity  for  books.  One  thing  alone 
brought  a  shade  of  unquiet  to  the  Deacon.  Although 
Fred  went  cheerfully  to  the  South  School-house,  and 
resolutely  and  heroicalh'  kept  awake  through  the  ser- 
inons  of  Darwin  Atwater,  he  evinced  little  interest  in 
religion,  and  a  disrelish  for  the  Millennial  Harbinger, 
and  did  not  take  very  kindly  to  Niles's  Register.  In 
wardly,  Uncle  Seth  always  had  misgivings  whether  Fred 
ever  did  read  clear  through  Mr.  Campbell's  masterly 
dissertation  upon  the  Holy  Spirit,  although  he  was 
never  heard  to  give  utterance  to  such  doubts  ;  still  he 
had  them,  and  they  troubled  him. 

To  Fred,  how  inexpressibly  kind  and  sweet  was  the 
change  which  had  now  come  to  him  !  How  gently  and 
lovingly  the  sky  bent  over  him  !  How  green  and  glad 
the  earth  was  to  him  !  With  what  wonderful  kindness 
the  woods  waved  their  boughs  to  him  !  The  springing 
corn  seemed  to  peep  up  on  purpose  to  see  him  ;  and  the 
birds  sang,  and  the  returned  swallows  chirruped  to  him 
from  the  sparkling  air.  How  pleasant  to  care  for  the 
sheep,  and  pick  up  the  weakling  lambs;  to  nurse  the 
young  calves  ;  to  be  all  the  day  in  the  glad,  open 
air,  rich  with  the  perfume  of  apple-blossoms  !  He  did 


128  THE    PORTRAIT. 

not  find  it  hard  to  plant  and  hoe  corn,  or  to  drive  the 
oxen.  lie  got  very  tired,  at  first ;  but  then  how  hun 
gry  he  would  be !  and  never  was  there  sweeter  food 
than  the  profuse  plenty  which  Aunt  Mary  furnished, 
and  which  she  never  stinted  or  grudged.  She  was  a 
famous  cook  and  housewife.  The  nights  came  full 
soon,  and  full  of  rest  and  unbroken  sleep. 

Did  he  remember  Lily?  Did  he  think  of  Rose?  It 
Is  not  in  health}'  nature  for  a  boy  of  fourteen  to  remem 
ber  much ;  to  retrospect  or  introspect,  or  think  at  all, 
save  passingly,  as  the  healthful,  sweet  breeze  of  sum 
mer  passes  on,  and  always  on,  never  lingering  much, 
never  turning  back,  and  only  at  times  breaking  into  a 
gentle  sigh.  Yet,  after  all,  here,  as  elsewhere,  the  old 
nameless  shadow  from  the  never-seen  cloud  was  on 
him.  Had  Aunt  Mary  told  Sarah?  What  was  it  in 
the  look  with  which  she  soon  regarded  him?  Why 
could  he  not  have  one  kind,  dear,  true,  unknowing 
friend?  She  was  not  less  kind,  perhaps,  but  more  dis 
tant  ;  not  less  considerate,  but  less  talkative.  Fred 
could  only  lift  his  eyes,  and  turn  with  a  mute  sadness 
away.  He  could  ask  no  question,  sa}'  no  word.  His 
path  might  cross  the  paths  of  others  ;  his  orbit,  for  a 
moment,  touch  that  of  another ;  but,  without  knowing, 
he  could  feel  that,  in  this  beautiful,  crowded,  many- 
voiced  world,  he  was  to  journey  in  solitude,  —  ever  aad 
ever  alone. 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

THE    GREAT    PREACHER. 

AN  event  of  the  season  -was  the  visit  of  Alexander 
Campbell  to  Northern  Ohio,  to  counsel,  comfort, 
consolidate,  and  confirm  the  churches  upon  the  Reserve. 
Not  wholly  had  they  recovered  from  the  secession  of 
Rigdon  ;  and,  although  the  strong-headed  Ryder  soon 
recovered  from  his  momentary  tripping,  the  churches 
had  languished,  and  minor  differences  in  dogma  had 
sprung  up,  —  notably  in  reference  to  the  many-sided 
and  eminently  practical  doctrines  of  the  true  nature 
and  office  of  the  Holy  Spirit.  Mr.  Campbell  had  never 
been  upon  the  Reserve,  r.lt  hough  his  venerable  father 
had  ministered  much  in  that  field.  He  had  formed  the 
purpose  of  this  mission  two  years  before,  and  his  com 
ing  had  long  been  anxiously  looked  and  longed  for 
among  the  disciples.  Not  only  among  them  did  the 
announcement  of  his  coming  produce  a  sensation.  He 
was  the  most  distinguished  and  formidable  controver 
sialist  of  his  time. 

He  had  already  won  the  gratitude  of  Christians  by 
the  battle  royal  which  lie  had  fought  for  the  general 
cause  of  inspired  Christianity,  with  the  powers  of  the 
common  adversary,  led  by  that  amiable  and  wrong- 
headed  philanthropist  Robert  Owen  ;  he  was  the  cham- 
9  (129) 


130  THE    PORTRAIT. 

pion  of  Protestantism  against  the  scarlet-robed  woman 
of  doubtful  reputation  ;  and,  later  still,  he  had  laid 
lance  in  rest  for  the  comforting  dogma  of  endless 
perdition.  So  that,  Coeur  do  Lion  as  he  was,  of  schism, 
in  the  Baptist  Church,  and  general  heresy  against 
creed  and  man-usage,  the  granite  basis  of  his  theology 
retained  the  genuine  imprint  of  the  most  essential  Cal- 
vinistic  dogma. 

Late  in  June,  after  the  second  corn  hoeing,  when  the 
meadow  grass  was  maturing  over  the  ripened  straw 
berries,  and  ere  the  turning  of  the  grain,  long  after 
the  calves  had  been  weaned,  and  the  sheep  sheared, 
whose  fleeces  in  soft,  white  rolls  were  running  into 
threads  through  the  rosy-tipped  fingers  of  spinning- 
girls,  and  a  lull  had  fallen  upon  the  severer  work  of 
the  farmer,  the  great  preacher  came. 

It  had  rained  the  night  before  ;  and  that  Sunday 
morning  was  one  of  marvellous  fragrance  and  fresh 
ness,  when  Deacon  Carman,  mounted  on  his  favorite 
Bay  mare,  Kate,  and  accompanied  by  Fred,  on  the 
snip-nosed  chestnut  colt,  rode  out  to  the  great  meeting 
in  the  woods,  near  the  centre  of  Aurora.  It  was  to  be 
a  primitive  gathering,  in  a  grand  old  beech  and  maple 
forest,  of  all  the  faithful,  of  the  inquiring  and  curious, 
of  the  adjacent  parts  of  Portage,  Geauga,  and  Cuya- 
hoga  Counties,  then  as  populous  as  now.  To  and 
across  the  State  road,  west,  and  then  south-westerl}',  the 
ride  was  nearly  ten  miles  to  the  point  of  meeting. 
They  started  alone,  passed  footmen  and  heavy  wagons, 
and  joined  other  horsemen,  till,  as  they  neared  the 
place,  the}*  were  lost  in  a  general  procession,  that 
broke  up  and  gathered  about  the  stand.  The  woods 


THE    GREAT    PREACHER.  131 

were  full  of  horses  and  carriages,  and  the  hundreds 
already  there  were  rapidly  swelled  to  many  thousands  ; 
all  of  one  race,  —  the  Yankee  ;  all  of  one  calling,  or 
nearly,  —  the  farmer;  hardy,  shrewd,  sunburned,  cool, 
thoughtful,  and  intelligent.  The  disciples  were,  from 
the  first,  emancipated  from  the  Puritan  slavery  of  the 
Sabbath ;  and,  although  grave,  thoughtful,  and  serious, 
as  they  were  on  this  Sunday  morning,  it  was  from  the 
gravity  and  seriousness  of  the  occasion,  and  little  from 
the  day  itself,  —  an  assemblage  that  Paul  would  have 
been  glad  to  preach  to. 

At  the  hour  of  eleven,  Mr.  Campbell  and  his  party 
took  their  places  on  the  stand ;  and  after  a  short, 
simple,  preliminary  service,  conducted  b}r  another,  he 
came  forward  to  the  front.  He  was  then  about  forty 
years  old,  above  the  average  height,  of  singular  dignity 
of  form,  and  simple  grace  of  manner.  His  was  a  splen 
did  head,  borne  well  back,  with  a  bold,  strong  fore 
head,  from  which  his  fine  hair  was  turned  back ;  a 
strong,  full,  expressive  eye,  aquiline  nose,  fine  mouth, 
and  prominent  chin.  He  was  a  perfect  master  of  him 
self,  a  perfect  master  of  his  theme,  and,  from  the 
moment  he  stood  in  its  presence,  a  perfect  master  of 
his  immense  audience. 

At  a  glance  he  took  the  measure  and  level  of  the 
average  mind  before  him  —  a  Scotchman's  estimate  of 
the  Yankee  —  and  began  at  that  level ;  and  as  he  rose 
from  it,  he  took  the  assembled  host  with  him.  In 
nothing  was  he  like  Rigdon  ;  calm,  clear,  strong,  log 
ical,  yet  perfectly  simple.  Men  felt  themselves  lifted 
and  carried,  and  wondered  at  the  ease  and  apparent 
want  of  effort  with  which  it  was  done. 


162  THE    PORTRAIT. 

Nothing  could  be  more  transparent  than  his  state 
ment  of  his  subject ;  nothing  franker  than  his  admis 
sions  of  its  difficulties  ;  nothing  more  direct  than  his 
enumeration  of  the  means  he  must  employ,  and  the 
conclusions  he  must  reach.  With  great  intellectual 
resources,  and  great  acquisitions,  athlete  and  gladiator 
as  he  was,  he  was  a  logician  by  instinct  and  habit  of 
mind,  and  took  a  pleasure  in  magnifying,  to  their 
utmost,  the  difficulties  of  his  positions,  so  that  when 
the  latter  were  finally  maintained,  the  mind  was  satis 
fied  with  the  result.  His  language  was  copious,  his 
style  nervous,  and  the  characteristic  of  his  mind  was 
direct,  manly,  sustained  vigor  ;  and  under  its  play  he 
evolved  a  warmth  which  kindled  to  the  fervor  of  sus 
tained  eloquence,  and  which,  in  the  judgment  of  many, 
is  the  only  true  eloquence.  After  nearly  two  hours, 
his  natural  and  logical  conclusion  was  the  old  pente- 
costal  mandate  of  Simon  Peter,  and  a  strong,  earn 
est,  manly  and  tender  call  of  men  to  obedience.  There 
was  no  appeal  to  passion,  no  effort  at  pathos,  no  figures 
or  rhetoric,  but  a  warm,  kindling,  heated,  glowing, 
manly  argument,  silencing  the  will,  captivating  the 
judgment,  and  satisfying  the  reason  ;  and  the  cold, 
shrewd,  thinking,  calculating  Yankee  liked  it. 

As  the  preacher  closed,  and  stood  for  a  response,  no 
answering  movement  came  from  any  part  of  the  crowd. 
Men  were  running  it  over,  and  thinking.  Unhesit.it- 
ingby  the  orator  stepped  down  from  the  platform,  upon 
the  ground,  and  moving  forward  in  the  little  open 
space,  began  in  a  more  fervid  and  impassioned  strain. 
He  caught  the  mind  at  the  highest  point  of  its  attain 
ment,  and  grasping  it,  shook  it  with  a  half  indignation 


TIIF.    GREAT    PKEACTIEB.  133 

at  its  calculating  hesitation,  and  carrying  it  with  a 
mighty  sweep  to  a  still  higher  level,  seemed  to  pour 
around  it  a  diviner  and  more  radiant  light  ;  then,  with 
a  little  tremor  in  his  voice,  he  implored  it  to  hesitate 
no  longer.  When  he  closed,  low  murmurs  broke  and 
ran  through  the  awed  crowd  ;  men  and  women  from 
all  parts  of  the  vast  assemblage,  with  streaming  eyes, 
came  forward  '  young  men,  who  had  climbed  into  the 
small  trees  from  curiosity,  came  down  from  conviction, 
and  went  forward  to  baptism  ;  and  the  brothers  and 
sisters  set  up  a  glad  hymn,  sang  with  tremulous  voices, 
clasping  hands,  amid  happy  tears. 

Thus,  in  that  far-off  time,  in  the  maple  woods,  under 
the  June  sun,  the  gospel  was  preached  and  received. 

Fred,  who  had  tied  the  horses  in  the  woods,  and 
placed  the  saddles  between  the  spreading  roots  of  an 
old  elm,  near  the  stand,  in  such  a  way  as  to  form  a 
convenient  and  elevated  seat,  sat  or  stood  upon  them, 
and  never  took  his  eyes  from  the  face  of  the  speaker 
during  the  delivery  of  his  masterly  oration.  Much  of 
it  was  within  the  easy  grasp  of  his  comprehension  ;  as 
a  whole,  it  was  beyond"  it,  and  the  labor  was  too  sus 
tained  for  his  boyish  mind  to  follow.  Nevertheless, 
the  impression  upon  his  imagination  was  very  great, 
and  the  wish  of  standing  in  the  midst  of  an  immense 
concourse,  as  on  the  present  occasion,  its  centre  and 
dominant  soul  and  mind,  and  of  pouring  out  upon  it  an 
oversweeping  tide  of  irresistible  speech,  argument, 
logic  and  metaphor,  and  of  seeing  men  move  and  bow 
before  it,  as  now  he  saw  men  about  him.  took,  for  the 
time,  complete  mastery  of  him,  and  gave  rise  to  dreams 


134  THE    PORTRAIT. 

that  ever  after  haunted  him.  After  the  service,  he 
went  with  Mr.  Carman  to  the  house  of  one  of  the  dis 
ciples,  where  they  had  dinner,  and  rode  home  in  the 
cool  of  the  sweet  June  ni^ht. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

AUXT    MARY    DOES    HER    CHRISTIAN   DUTY. 

A  FTER  the  wheat  had  been  harvested,  and  hay 
-£A_  made  and  stacked  ;  after  the  deep  noon  of  sum 
mer,  when  the  white  apples  were  ripening  in  the  north 
orchard,  and  the  thick  dark  corn  loaded  the  breeze 
with  its  odor  ;  when  the  wild  turkey-hen  ventured  to 
glean  with  her  brood  in  the  remote  harvest  fields,  and 
the  shrill  voices  of  the  grasshopper  and  cricket  came 
from  everywhere,  and  idle  little  urchins,  with  a  mam- 
branched  goad,  chased  the  brown-coated,  gay-winged 
"  flyers,"  amid  the  grass  and  ragweed,  along  the  mar 
gins  of  the  lonely  highways  ;  before  the  wheat  sowing, 
and  corn  and  potato  harvesting,  and  apple  gathering 
and  cider  making  of  fall,  and  the  nutting  over  the 
chestnut  hills  ;  in  the  richer,  longer,  sweeter  pause  in 
farm  life,  from  late  August  to  mid  September,  the  Car- 
mans —  Uncle  Seth,  and  Aunt  Mar}-,  and  little  demure 
Martha — went 'to  visit  the  Morrises,  in  their  home 
near  Newton  Falls,  twenty-five  miles  away,  —  quite  a 
journe}-  at  that  da}-. 

The  elders  had  met  two  or  three  years  before  at  one 

of  the  great  gatherings  of  their  common  faith  ;    and 

although  there  was  little  else  in  common  between  them, 

they  became  good  friends,   and  the  Morrises  had  the 

(135) 


136  THE    PORTRAIT. 

autumn  before  made  the  first  visit  to  the  Carmans  —  a 
courtesy  which  the  latter  "were  now  to  return. 

The  visit  was  a  matter  of  much  anxiety  and  agita 
tion.  The  Morrises  were  wealthy,  cultivated,  and  in  a 
certain  sense  grand  people,  in  their  region.  They 
lived  in  what  was  great  style  for  the  West ;  ate  with 
silver  forks  ;  had  been  to  Europe  ;  were  a  branch  of 
the  revolutionary  Morrises,  —  in  short.  Uncle  Seth  had 
been  induced  to  buy  a  new  carriage  —  a  sort  of  a 
wagon  on  springs — the  harnesses  were  cleaned  up, 
and  a  pair  of  fine  work-horses  had  been  kept  up  for 
man}'  days  for  the  occasion  ;  and  Fred,  with  his  good 
clothes,  was  to  go  as  driver,  partly  because  he  could 
handle  the  horses  well,  partly  because  his  appearance 
was  creditable,  and  a  good  deal  because  Aunt  Mary 
still  maintained  her  jealous  mistrust  of  him.  The  little 
journey  was  made  in  mid  September,  when  the  weather 
was  splendid,  and  the  roads  at  their  best. 

Mr.  Morris,  a  cultivated  gentleman  of  travel  and 
leisure,  had  a  few  years  before  moved  to  Ohio,  to  take 
charge  of  a  large  inherited  property,  had  built  a  spa 
cious  residence,  surrounded  it  with  beautiful  grounds, 
and  filled  it  with  elegant  furniture,  and  a  few  genuine 
works  of  art. 

Mrs.  Morris  was  an  accomplished  woman  of  refined 
culture.  The  eldest  daughter,  fast  maturing  into 
womanhood,  a  lovely  girl,  was  with  them  under  an  in 
structress  ;  and  the  youngest,  Belle,  a  child  of  ten, 
with  wonderful  eyes  and  hair,  rich  in  possible  beauty, 
with  a  far  away  cousin,  young  Williams,  a  boy  of  ten 
or  twelve  —  the  last  of  an  attenuated  race,  that  had 
declined  under  the  artificial  life  of  luxury  and  inter- 


AUNT    MAUY    DOES    HER    CHRISTIAN    DUTY.  107 

marriage,  so  fatal  to  families  in  large  cities  —  consti 
tuted  the  family. 

The  Carmans  were  received  not  only  with  the  warmth 
that  then  characterized  the  intercourse  of  the  disciples, 
who  were  preeminently  governed  by  the  democratic 
notions  which  are  the  basis  of  Christian  social  life,  but 
with  the  simple  naturalness  of  thorough  refinement, 
that  will  not  endure  the  clogs  and  hindrances  of  cer- 
emon}',  and  artificial  phrases.  The}'  were  at  once  at 
their  ease  ;  and  Uncle  Seth  always  maintained  that 
brother  and  sister  Morris  were  the  most  genuine  Chris 
tians  he  had  ever  met.  So  much  so  that  they  dropped 
that  endearing  title  of  brotherhood  from  their  conver 
sation. 

When  Aunt  Mary  decided  to  take  Fred,  it  was  in  the 
exclusive  character  of  driver,  and  this  fact  was  duly 
impressed  upon  him,  and  stated  to  others  ;  and  in  her 
often-repeated  programme  and  rehearsal  of  deportment 
to  her  husband,  Martha  and  Fred,  he  was  reminded  of 
the  role  he  was  to  fill ;  Fred  was  used  to  the  stable  and 
drivers.  He  had  not  forgotten  the  first  rude  months  at 
Green's,  nor  the  promotion  that  followed  it,  nor  his 
gilded  and  pampered  life  among  the  saints  ;  and  on  his 
arrival  at  the  Morrises,  he  expected  to  remain  in  charge 
of  the  horses,  lounge  about  the  barn,  stray  about  in  the 
open  air,  eat  in  the  kitchen,  and  sleep  anywhere.  In 
deed,  he  had  not  thought  much  about  it.  Ho  was  very 
glad  to  go  ;  liked  to  drive  horses,  found  almost  an 
ecstacy  in  riding  through  the  country  with  little  prattling 
Martha  by  his  side,  who  was  too  young  to  know  any 
reason  why  she  should  not  love  him,  who  had  come  to  be 
her  watchful,  thoughtful,  big  brother,  whom  she  would 


138  THE    PORTRAIT. 

as  certainly  admire  and  love  all  her  childhood  and 
girlhood  through.  This  at  least  would  be  his. 

When  the  carriage  drove  through  the  maple  and  elm 
avenue  that  led  up  to  the  mansion,  Fred  was  at  once 
relieved  of  the  horses  ;  and  hardly  knowing  what  to  do, 
stood  apart  while  the  host  and  hostess,  with  their 
young  daughters,  received  their  guests.  Mrs.  Morris 
was  about  conducting  them  into  the  house,  when,  for 
the  first  time,  her  eye  fell  upon  the  solitary  boy. 
"And  who  is  this?"  with  inquiring  surprise. 

"  Oh  !  that's  our  driver,  our  bound  boy  ;  "  with  indif 
ference  from  Aunt  Mary.  . 

"  Indeed  !     What  is  his  name?  " 

"Fred." 

To  the  immense  surprise  of  Aunt  Mary,  Mrs.  Morris 
at  once  went  to  him,  and  giving  him  her  hand  in  the 
sweetest  way,  led  him  forward  to  her  husband,  and 
named  her  daughters,  and  young  Williams,  as  if  he  was 
of  the  party. 

Was  it  possible  that  these  Morrises,  with  the  inher 
ited  instincts  of  generations  of  culture  and  refinement, 
recognized  this  sun-browned,  modest  boy  as  one  who, 
without  question,  belonged  to  them?  They  acted  as  if 
they  did  ;'  and  Uncle  Seth  always  cited  the  conduct  of 
"Sister  Morris"  on  this  occasion,  as  proof  of  the 
elevation  to  which  the  spirit  of  Christian  meekness  and 
charity  at  once  raised  its  happy  possessor. 

Not  wholly  in  vain,  so  far  as  his  manners  and  de 
portment  were  concerned,  had  been  Fred's  residence 
with  the  saints ;  and  not  without  advantages  in  this 
respect,  had  he  associated  with  sweet  and  tender  Lily, 
and  teasing,  coquetting  Rose.  More  than  once  did 


AUNT    MARY    DOES    HER   CHRISTIAN   DUTY.  139 

Mrs.  Morris,  during  supper,  cast  her  eye  to  where  Fred 
sat  by  Maud,  and  study  the  dark,  large  eyes,  and  finely- 
turned  and  cut  nostril,  already  thin  and  beautifully 
defined,  for  a  boy  of  fourteen  or  fifteen,  listening  to  his 
quiet,  gentlemanly  answers,  and  the  man}'  questions  of 
the  vivacious  Maud. 

The  false  position  in  which  Fred  seemed  to  stand  in 
this  innocent  circle,  disturbed  Aunt  Mary,  and  she 
thought  that  "  Mrs.  Morris  ought  to  know."  True, 
they  should  be  there  but  a  day  or  two  ;  still  she  felt  it 
her  duty  to  tell  her,  and  put  her  on  her  guard,  as  she 
did  cveiybody ;  and  Aunt  Mary  had  easily  attained 
that  Christian  excellence  that  rendered  every  duty  of 
this  kind  a  pleasure  as  well. 

As  for  Fred,  a  sort  of  pleasant  glamour  came  over  him 
the  moment  he  entered  the  house.  The  lofty,  spacious 
rooms,  with  their  hangings  and  pictures,  their  carpets 
and  furniture,  —  something  in  the  air,  somehow, 
vaguely  made  impressions,  like  the  liaunting  memory 
of  a  dream  ;  and  he  could  not  help  looking  about  as  if 
from  something  he  would  catch  a  clue  to  it ;  and  more 
than  once  Mrs.  Morris  found  his  eyes  upon  her,  as  if 
he  would  ask  a  question,  and  as  the  impression  deep 
ened  on  him,  perhaps  he  would  have  done  so. 

During  the  next  day,  and  while  the  young  people 
were  amusing  themselves  in  the  grounds,  Mrs.  Carman, 
seated  in  an  arbor  a  little  remote,  and  exposed  to  the 
sun  for  the  benefit  of  a  rare  grape  that  covered  the 
south  side  of  it,  discharged  her  Christian  duty  to  Mrs. 
Morris,  telling  in  a  very  straightforward,  intelligent, 
and  pointed  way,  everything  which  she  did  not  know 
about  the  orhmi  and  life  of  her  driver.  Mrs.  Morris 


140  THE    PORTRAIT. 

was  surprised  and  pained  beyond  measure ;  and  not  the 
least  cause  of  her  surprise  was,  that  her  visitor  should 
have  told  her  at  all.  Perhaps  Aunt  Mary  would  have 
been  no  less  surprised  had  she  known  how  widely  her 
sense  of  Christian  duty  differed  from  that  of  the  noble 
and  exalted  woman  who  sat  looking  at  her  in  amaze 
ment.  When  she  recovered,  she  inquired,  "  Does  he 
know  anything  of  this  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     It  is  talked  about  all  over  Mantua." 
"  No  doubt  of  that ;  "  quietly,  with  a  little  strain  in 
her  voice.  "  Does  he  ever  sa}'  anything  about  himself?" 
"  Not  a  word." 

"  God  in  mere}'  pity  him  !  Oh,  poor  boy  !  " 
Fred,  who  had  been  strolling  about,  talking  and 
laughing  with  the  girls,  and  brighter  and  happier  than 
he  had  ever  been,  was  attracted  by  the  ripening  clusters 
of  grapes  on  the  arbor,  unaware  that  it  was  occupied. 
lie  reached  it  just  at  the  pause  that  followed  the  per 
formance  of  AmTt  Mary's  Christian  dut}',  and  was  an 
involuntary  listener  to  the  conversation  that  followed 
as  above.  He  heard  the  whole  of  it  without  taking 
its  application ;  but  the  last  words  gave  it  point,  and 
smote  him  like  a  blow.  After  a  moment  of  stunned 
amazement,  he  turned  away  with  hot  tears  in  his  eyes, 
and  his  face  burning  with  shame. 

"  Oh,  poor,  poor  boy  !  "  The  atmosphere  of  Mantua 
was  full  of  this ;  but  to  his  ears  the  words  had  never 
before  been  spoken  ;  and  now  they  were  uttered  by  the 
woman  whom  he  wanted  to  kneel  down  to  and  worship. 
He  rushed  away,  clambered  over  the  enclosures, 
traversed  the  fields,  and  found  shelter  in  the  woods. 
More  than  once  he  looked  up  at  the  sky  and  sun, 


ADXT    MARY    DOES    HER    CHRISTIAN   DUTY.  141 

and  around,  to  see  if  his  shadow  still  followed  him. 
He  dashed  into  a  thicket  of  brush  on  the  margin 
of  the  field,  and  gathering  the  3'oung  stems  in  his  arms, 
he  threw  himself  on  the  ground  with  their  branches  and 
leaves  over  him,  and  groaned,  and  longed  to  die.  The 
shadow  that  was  over  him  had  darkened  into  a  palpable 
cloud.  The  invisible  chain  with  which  he  was  so  darkly 
bound  was  now  revealed. 

Death  would  not  come,  and  he  thought  of  flight ;  he 
would  run  away,  and  never  stop  running.  He  thought 
of  the  little  hovel  by  the  river,  of  the  dying  woman, 
not  his  mother,  and  of  little  John,  and  then  of  his  boat ; 
why  did  he  not  commit  himself  to  it,  and  float  down 
the  river  or  drown  ? 

But  he  was  born  to  it ;  he  might  not  escape.  lie 
thought  of  Aunt  Sally,  —  perhaps  she  was  his  mother. 
He  knew  that  he  loved  her,  and  she  had  enjoined  him 
to  remain  in  Mantua,  and  then  came  the  image  of  sweet 
Lily.  Mr.  Carman,  of  course,  knew  it,  yet  he  liked 
him  ;  and  little  Martha,  —  but  she  would  know,  —  and 
he  arose  and  wandered  about  the  woods  till  he  grew 
cooler  and  more  thoughtful.  Then  his  pride  came  up, 
and  his  inborn  manhood,  and  he  grew  indignant.  What 
had  he  done  ?  Was  he  not  as  perfect  in  form,  strong, 
and  as  full  of  courage  as  other  boys  ?  He  would  face 
this  world  and  fight  it,  and  would  not  be  despised  or 
scorned.  Beside,  had  he  not  always  lived  alone? 

They  should  go  back  to  Mantua  in  the  morning, 
and  it  was  now  mid-afternoon.  He  would  linger  about 
till  evening,  and  then  go  in.  They  need  not  see  much 
of  him ;  nobody  would  want  him.  He  had  talked  of 
riding  that  evening  with  Maud,  and  Belle,  and  Martha, 


142  THE    PORTRAIT. 

and    Ed   Williams ;    hut   what   would    they   care   for 
him  ? 

Fred  was  missed,  and  nobody  knew  where  he  was  ; 
nobody  had  seen  him,  and  the  girls  took  their  ride 
without  him.  As  they  were  assembling  for  supper  he 
came  in  a  little  pale,  and  looking  weary.  He  explained 
that  he  was  tempted  into  the  woods,  had  wandered 
about,  and  took  the  wrong  way  out ;  apologized  to 
Miss  Maud,  and  sat  down  to  the  table.  He  had  not 
looked  at  Mrs.  Morris,  and  when  he  ventured  to  raise 
his  eyes  to  her,  he  met  her  glance  full  of  sweet  tender 
ness  and  compassion.  He  didn't  want  pity  and  com 
passion  ;  he  had  found  his  pride  ;  nobody  need  pity 
him,  and  he  avoided  her  as  far  as  he  could  while  they 
remained. 

The  next  morning,  after  breakfast,  the  horses  were 
driven  around  ;  kind  words  were  being  spoken  on  the 
piazza  ;  messages  to  Sarah  and  Elias,  and  all  the  little 
nothings  and  somethings  of  leave-taking  were  being 
said  and  done.  Fred,  who  had  kept  himself  reticent 
and  aloof  as  much  as  his  good  breeding  would  permit, 
was  standing  a  little  apart,  and  posed  naturally  against 
a  pillar  that  sustained  the  roof  of  the  piazza  ;  while  Ed 
Williams,  who  had  become  his  great  admirer,  stood 
near  him,  observing  him  with  silent  admiration,  with 
Belle  resting  her  two  hands  on  one  of  his  shoulders, 
and  admiring  Fred  because  Ed  did.  As  Fred  returned 
his  kindly  look,  ho  could  not  help  contrasting  their 
conditions.  True,  Ed  was  an  orphan,  but  he  was  the 
heart  and  centre  of  this  enchanted  castle 'of  luxury  und 
love,  petted  and  cherished  ;  while  he  — 

Patience  and  endurance,  my  poor  boy  !     This  page 


AUNT    MARY    DOES    IIEU    CHRISTIAN    DUTY.  143 

has  received  something  beside  the  ink  that  tells  your 
story.  Can't  3*011  see,  by  the  preternaturally  large 
bright  eyes,  shrunken  temple,  and  light  thin  hair,  by 
the  compressed  chest  and  sloping  girl-shoulders,  that 
life,  and  its  riches  of  achievement,  of  strength  and 
power,  are  not  for  him?  He  may  not  endure,  and  at 
the  best  may  only  dream.  Endure,  work,  and  grow 
strong  ;  be  docile,  and  learn  to  obey.  Grow,  spread  out 
your  shoulders,  let  your  spine  become  a  column,  let 
your  lungs  expand  and  deepen,  your  blood-vessels 
enlarge,  and  the  base  of  your  brain  increase.  No 
matter  about  the  rest ;  unfold  and  develop  slowly.  The 
germs  of  great  events  are  being  deposited  here  and 
there,  and  a  wonderful  field  is  to  be  reaped  ;  men  must 
spring  and  grow  up  for  the  da}-  of  harvest.  They  don't 
always  come  from  cities  or  the  old  crowded  ways. 
They  as  often  spring  up  in  solitude,  and  come  from 
obscure  places.  Of  the  boys  now  fourteen  years  old, 
no  mortal  can  select  one  of  the  ten  or  fifteen  who  shall 
rule  fort}-  or  fifty  years  hence  ;  and  probably  no  man 
could  designate  one  of  the  one  hundred  distinguished, 
or  even  of  the  one  thousand  prominent  men  of  that 
coming  time. 

It  is  bitter  and  sad  for  you,  as  you  lean  against  a  post 
this  bright  morning,  so  young  and  friendless  and  un 
knowing.  But  a  field  shall  be  listed,  the  trumpet  shall 
call  the  champions,  with  no  common  men  among  them, 
the  array  shall  be  set,  the  charge  sounded,  strong  arms 
shall  wield  trenchant  blades,  and  plumes  and  crests 
shall  be  shorn  away,  and  helmets  sundered,  and  skulls 

1 

cloven ;  men  shall  go  down,  and  standards  swerve  and 


144  THE    PORTRAIT. 

be  lost ;  some  shall  win,  and  there  shall  be  a  crowning 
for  some. 

While  Fred  and  Ed  and  Belle  were  thus  admiring 
each  other,  the  adieus  had  been  said,  and  the  horses 
came  forward.  Mrs.  Morris,  coming  up  to  Fred,  asked 
him  to  accept  a  beautiful  new  volume  of  Shakespeare, 
which  he  had  admired,  saying  that  he  must  receive 
it  as  a  token  of  the  interest  she  felt  in  him  ;  and  that 
if  Maud  visited  Sarah  the  next  spring,  he  must  furnish 
her  with  a  good  riding-horse,  and  attend  her,  to  see 
that  no  harm  came  to  her.  This  may  have  been  in 
tended  for  another  as  well.  Fred,  though  greatly  sur 
prised,  managed  to  thank  her  decently  and  simply. 
Then  they  all  shook  hands  with  him,  when  his  party 
entered  the  carriage,  and  he  drove  away. 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

TWELVE    YEARS. TIME'S    CHANGES. 

"TTTTIEN  we  lose  the  grasp  of  details,  we  lose  the 
V  V  grasp  of  interest  as  well. 

What  a  long  period  of  time  is  twelve  years  to  look 
forward  to !  What  a  little  gasp  of  breath,  choked 
with  dead  dust  and  ashes,  to  look  back  upon  ;  on  the 
thither  side  of  that  period  I  linger  a  moment,  to  mark 
the  vicissitudes  of  these  years  upon  the  persons  of  my 
story,  ere  resuming  the  threads  of  it  with  such  as 
have  survived. 

Jones,  with  whom  was  little  John,  had  moved  West, 
taking  that  young  specimen  with  him,  and  Sam  War 
den,  somewhat  improved  since  the  change  in  the  pro 
prietorship  of  the  Green  Tavern,  had  migrated  with 
him. 

Lily —  the  sweet  and  tender  lily  of  the  valley —  never 
reached  Cuba.  Her  disease  developed  so  rapidly,  that 
from  New  Orleans  her  mother  carried  her  home  to  die, 
and  herself  never  again  struck  harps  with  the  saints 
of  the  latter  days. 

Rose,  in  time,  married  a  prominent  young  saint,  and 
leads  and  lives  the  life  of  a  woman  in  Utah. 

Mary  —  Mary  found  all  too  soon  the  inspiration  of 
the  revelations  made  to  her  —  that  instead  of  being 
10  (145) 


146  THE    PORTRAIT. 

called  by  a  miracle  to  a  holy  maternity,  she  was  to  be 
come  the  — .  This  was  indeed  a  true  revelation  ;  its 
shame  and  agony  drove  her  mad,  and  in  her  frenzy 
she  washed  life  and  memory  out,  in  the  waters  of  the 
creek.  —  Act  of  Providence  ! 

And  Judith,  —  and  the  Prophet :  on  the  twenty- 
seventh  of  June,  1844,  the  log  jail  in  the  dreary  little 
town  of  Carthage  was  surrounded  by  a  murderous  mob. 
Inveigled  to  give  himself  up  on  the  solemn  assurance 
of  safety  from  the  Governor  of  Illinois,  the  Prophet, 
with  his  brother  Hyram,  was  now  to  suffer  martyrdom. 
Ilyram,  blameless,  save  as  the  brother  of  Joseph, 
calm!}*  confronted  the  murderers,  and  fell  praying  for 
them.  Not  so  the  lion-hearted  Prophet.  He  con 
fronted  them  with  a  revolver,  which  he  emptied  among 
them,  and  then  with  marvellous  strength  and  agility 
sprang  to  a  window,  supposed  to  be  out  of  his  reach, 
and,  strong!}*  guarded,  dashed  it  out,  to  fall  dead  on 
the  outside.  As  his  assassins  gathered  about  him,  a 
woman,  with  a  cry  of  agony,  leaped  into  their  midst, 
and  throwing  herself  upon  the  fallen  man,  eagerly  ex 
plored  the  face,  the  eyes  and  mouth  ;  and  when  she 
found  no  sign  of  life,  she  rose  to  the  full  majesty  of 
her  splendid  form,  and  in  her  dark  and  terrible  beauty 
confronted  the  cowardly  slayers,  and  was  left  alone 
with  her  dead. 

In  the  struggle  for  the  supremacy  which  ensued 
among  the  followers  of  the  late  Prophet,  the  deeper, 
shrewder,  and  more  politic  Brigham  Young  prevailed 
against  Kigdon.  The  latter  was  contumacious,  tried, 
cut  off,  and  consigned  by  an  elaborate  curse  to  expiate 
his  sins  by  a  thousand  years  of  exile  from  the  comma- 


TWELVE    YEARS. TIME'S    CHANGES.  147 

nion  of  the  saints,  and  departed.  An  adherent  of  his 
lingered  until,  by  artifice  and  simulation,  he  secured 
certain  papers,  supposed  to  be  of  advantage  to  the 
fallen  chief,  with  which  he  too  departed,  some  time  in 
the  winter  following. 

In  a  small,  close,  wretched  vault  of  a  room  in  the 
basement  of  the  Presidency,  in  the  centre  of  the  city 
of  Nauvoo,  a  strong  building,  part  residence,  part 
castle,  half  tavern,  half  brothel,  half  gambling  saloon, 
and  all  hell ;  in  a  lower  sink,  strong  in  wall,  strong  in 
stench,  and  strongest  in  polyglot  filth,  grovelled  John 
Green.  Long  ago,  but  slowly  an,d  very  surely,  had 
John  awaked  from  a  delusion  which  an  infirmity  in  his 
moral  conduct  had  helped  him  into,  —  stripped  utterly  of 
his  money  and  lands,  while  under  its  first  influence,  to 
which  fear  and  remorse  lent  their  help.  As  he  escaped 
from  the  thrall  of  superstition,  something  of  his  courage 
returned,  and  all  of  his  old  greed.  At  first  he  hinted  at 
full  restitution,  then  at  partial,  and  finally  asked  to  be 
placed  in  some  position,  or  helped  to  some  business, 
out  of  which  money  might  be  made.  He  grew  des 
perate,  and  with  desperation  came  more  courage  and 
less  prudence,  and  from  begging  he  changed  to  threats. 
These  were  fatal.  The  Prophet  had  become  really 
powerful,  and  brutal  as  well,  and  in  a  way  felt  that  he 
was  but  meting  out  deserved  punishment.  He  pro 
nounced  John  possessed  of  the  devil,  and  sentenced 
him  to  be  delivered  over  for  buffeting. 

This  was  upon  the  first  emigration  West,  when  a  cell 
was  constructed  on  purpose  for  Green,  and  where,  in 
the  late  autumn,  after  the  Prophet's  death,  emaciated, 
bent,  grisly,  tattered,  and  foul,  he  lay  grovelling,  as  he 


148  THE    PORTRAIT. 

had  done  for  years,  in  his  vile  den,  with  his  sunken 
eyes  peering  fearfully  about  in  the  gray  light,  with  his 
matted,  unkempt  hair,  in  filthy  dangles,  hanging  about 
his  wrinkled,  hideous  face,  and  his  shrunken  arms,  and 
skeleton,  long-nailed  fingers  reeking  with  the  filth  in 
which  they  raked.  For  a  marvel,  he  was  not  mad. 
One  human  being  alone  hovered  near  to  watch  over, 
aid,  alleviate,  and  possibly  love  him,  and  he  must  have 
sorely  tried  the  capacity  of  even  woman  to  love.  The 
sister  whose  early  life  he  had  embittered,  whose  ma 
ture  life,  for  his  own  safety*,  he  had  slandered,  and 
whose  whole  life*  he  had  darkened,  had  followed, 
waited,  watched,  helped,  and  when  she  could  she  had 
cheered  and  consoled  him.  She  had  always  held  a  cer 
tain  consideration  in  the  household  of  the  Prophet, 
who  had  a  shrewd  suspicion  that  she  had  aided  in  the 
escape  of  Fred,  whom  he  had  summarily  cut  off,  and 
she  found  occasions  to  ameliorate  the  wretched  condi 
tion  of  John.  One  stead}'  incentive  urged  her  to  this : 
the  fact  that  a  secret  dearer  to  her  than  life,  she  had 
never  been  able  to  penetrate. 

Upon  the  change  of  the  head  of  the  Mormon  polity, 
Sally  had  besieged  Brigham  to  release  her  brother 
from  durance.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  case,  and  was 
too  busy.  When  again  urged,  he  found  nobody  who 
knew  anything  of  the  case,  nor  did  any  record  or  mem 
orandum  show  anj'thing  of  it.  Sally  had  a  reputation 
for  honesty  and  fidelity-,  and  was  personally  well- 
known  to  the  new  President.  Finally,  toward  the 
spring  of  1845,  he  gave  an  order  for  John's  enlarge 
ment.  It  did  not  come  a  moment  too  early.  The 
door  was  finally  opened  unwontedl}-,  —  a  party  camo 


TWELVE    YEARS. TIME'S    CHANGES.  149 

and,  nauseated  by  the  liberated  effluvia,  fished  him 
out.  He  was  clarified,  and  carried  to  Sally's  room, 
but  he  never  rallied.  Beckoning  her  to  him,  and  pulling 
her  close  down  to  his  blue,  shrivelled  lips,  with  one  hand, 
while  with  the  other  he  feebly  deprecated  the  approach 
of  intrusive  spirits,  with  a  mental  declaration  to  them 
that  he  would  make  it  all  right  now,  he  brokenly  and 
still  hesitatingly  whispered  into  her  eager  car  a  few 
disconnected  words,  which  would  have  conveyed  noth 
ing  to  another,  and  which,  after  all,  he  intended 
should  conve}"  nothing  to  her.  Something  more  she 
would  have  known  and  waited  for  —  was  about  to 
ask  —  but  the  voice  and  the  breath  that  formed  it 
never  came  agaiu.  And  the  onl}-  conscious  gleam 
of  satisfaction  that  solaced  that  final  moment  to  the 
(tying  man  arose  from  the  thought  that  he  had  con 
veyed  but  a  doubtful  meaning,  and  was  bearing  one 
item  away  with  him,  while  the  onlooking  shadows 
must  suppose  that  it  was  all  right  at  last. 

A  few  kind  hands  laid  the  remains  of  John  Green  in 
the  Potters  Field  of  the  saints  ;  and  in  the  early  spring, 
without  money,  and  a  little  bundle  of  worn  clothes, 
on  foot,  and  alone,  the  faithful  and  now  aged  woman 
turned  her  face  eastward,  to  fulfil  the  only  wish  of  her 
heart. 

Twelve  years  had  brought  many  changes  to  Mantua  ; 
the  settlers  had  increased,  new  houses  had  been  built, 
fields  and  clearings  had  spread  out,  improvements  been 
made,  roads  were  much  better,  and  the  whole  was  rap 
idly  assuming  the  appearance  of  an  old,  long-settled, 
prosperous,  and  wealthy  community.  Uncle  Bill,  and 
David  Fenton,  and  Chapman,  were  little  changed; 


150  THE    PORTRAIT. 

Delano  had  left  the  store,  and  Lewis  Turner,  who 
drove  stage  when  we  were  last  in  Mantua,  and  was  a 
friend  of  Fred's,  was  now  the  prosperous  owner  of  the 
old  and  greatly  improved*Green  Tavern. 

At  the  Carmans,  to  the  eye,  thrift  and  prosperity 
seemed  to  have  dropped  from  the  passing  twelve  years. 
The  old  pear-tree  had  risen  many  feet ;  the  house  was 
newly  painted ;  the  fences  were  upright  and  neat ; 
ornamental  trees  larger  ;  the  yards  clean  ;  the  farm  had 
stretched  east,  and  ascended  nearly  to  the  summit  of 
the  Hiram  hill,  where  it  presented  a  rough  and  stumpy 
aspect  under  the  afternoon  sun. 

Uncle  Scth  was  as  compdsed,  sturdy,  and  cheerful 
as  when  we  left  him  faced  towards  home,  on  the  return 
from  the  Morrises.  His  face  was.  still  to  the  New 
Jerusalem  of  his  faith,  cheerful  and  hopeful.  He  still 
arose,  did  the  chores,  had  his  breakfast,  read  whatever 
chapter  was  reached  in  the  course,  and  said  the  same  old, 
swoet,  simple,  hopeful  prayer  ;  after  which  he  arose,  and 
supplying  his  mouth  from  the  same  old  steel  tobacco- 
box,  assembled  his  workmen  on  the  little  north  porch, 
where  hung  the  saddles  and  harnesses,  and  announced 
the  day's  programme,  which,  like  the  syllogism,  was  an 
argument  of  three  propositions  :  the  invariable  "  Fustly, 
Nextly,  and  Finally."  He  still  sold  his  young  horses, 
and  took  promissory  notes,  which  he  always  failed  to 
collect.  Indeed,  so  chronic  had  this  practice  become, 
that  when  one  was  paid  he  looked  grave  over  it, 
as  a  strange  event,  betokening  the  end  of  all  things. 
He  still  sold  his  young  cattle  to  Heard,  who  never 
failed  to  pay ;  and  his  pork  and  cider  and  apples  to  a 
hungry,  promising  set  of  settlers  in  the  Welchfield  and 


TWELVE    YEARS.  —  TIME'S    CHANGES.  151 

Hiram  woods,  to  be  paid  for  in  days'  works,  at  fifty 
cents  a  day,  at  chopping  wood  or  in  haying  and  har 
vesting  ;  and  he  always  spent  a  week  on  old  Kate's 
back,  drumming  these  unperforming  forces  together,  and 
then  went  and  hired  two  or  three  good  hands,  and  did 
up  the  work  in  two  weeks.  He  still,  on  every  first  day, 
drove  to  the  South  School-house,  and  heard  Darwin's 
sermons  with  unabated  interest  and  profit,  and  in  his 
quiet,  serene  way,  got  about  as  much  out  of  human 
life  as  it  will  yield. 

Aunt  Mary  was  still  comely  and  frcsh-complexioned. 
She  still  distributed  flax  and  wool  among  her  hand 
maidens,  and  furnished  her  harvest  tables  with  the 
most  marvellous  dinners.  Her  face  had  softened,  and 
the  old  flash  came  more  seldom  to  her  still  black  C}TCS, 
and  her  voice  was  an  octave  lower.  Possibly  her 
views  of  Christian  duty  im\y  have  practically  changed, 
and  much  had  happened  to  modify  them. 

Sarah  had  matured  to  a  tall,  handsome  young  woman  ; 
had  been  away  to  school,  was  married,  and  lived  with 
her  husband  and  three  beautiful  children  in  Rootstown. 

Elias  came  home  from  school  at  the  age  of  twcnt.y, 
laid  his  great  square-browed  head  upon  his  pillow,  and 
died.  He  was  smitten  with  a  fever  ;  and  when  his  case 
became  desperate,  and  the  family,  worn  and  exhausted, 
knew  not  where  to  turn,  Fred  came  in  upon  them,  after 
years  of  absence  and  estrangement.  In  his  gentle  way, 
with  his  cool  strong  hands  and  great  calm  eyes,  tender 
and  considerate,  and  nerves  that  never  knew  a  tremor, 
he  took  him  and  them  in  his  arms  and  carried  them  to 
the  end;  then,  without  awaiting  thanks,  went  his  way. 

Little  demure  Martha  was  twenty,  a  shapely,  sweet  girl, 


152  THE    PORTRAIT. 

with  black  piquant  eyes,  and  full  of  womanly  ways. 
She  had  been  very  thoroughly  educated,  and  her  hands 
and  presence  had  shed  an  air  of  grace  and  refinement 
over  and  through  the  farm-house,  which  such  a  young 
woman  can  only  glamour  a  home  with. 

In  her  maiden  reveries,  had  the  thought  approached 
her  that  it  would  be  sweet  to  have  Fred  return  in  a 
different  role  from  that  of  big  brother  ?  If  it  ever  had, 
it  disappeared  in  the  presence  of  an  actual  lover ;  and 
now  the  conscious  young  maiden  was  the  happy  prom 
ised  of  a  deserving  youth,  to  whom  May-day,  or  some 
early  day  of  the  coming  season,  was  to  see  her  united. 

And  Fred,  —  what  of  Fred?  Do  you  really  care  for 
him?  Patience,  for  a  little,  we  shall  soon  see  and  hear 
much  of  him. 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 

BELLE    MORRIS. 

IN  mid  December,  in  Aunt  Mary's  sitting-room,  sits 
Belle  Morris,  as  she  was  still  called,  notwithstanding 
her  marriage,  alone  and  musing,  as  was  her  habit ;  she 
rises  and  walks  to  a  window,  against  the  wainscoting 
of  which  she  poses  with  a  marvellous  unstudied  grace. 
Indeed,  her  form  could  never  fall  outside  the  folds  and 
lines  of  grace.  It  seems  at  first  above  the  ordinary 
American  height,  owing  to  the  perfection  and  harmony 
of  all  that  makes  up  its  completed  whole. 

Her  hair — of  a  rich  brown,  from  which,  in  her  day 
of  half  asceticism,  she  never  could  expel  the  wave  — 
was  disposed  of  purposely,  a  little  low  over  the  broad 
brow,  to  shade  its  height.  Her  eyes,  also  brown,  with 
a  violet !  shade,  wide  apart,  were  almost  too  large  for 
her  face,  though  that  was  by  no  means  diminutive, 
and  were  full  of  dreamy  power.  What  perfect  cheeks 
and  chin,  with  a  mobile  mouth,  made  specially  to  win 
and  to  defy  description  !  How  short  its  upper  lip,  and 
how  straight  the  almost  Grecian  nose,  with  its  thin, 
delicate  nostril !  The  face  wore  an  almost  religious 
calmness,  but  was  warm,  and  sweet,  and  alive ;  a 
possible  St.  Catherine,  or  St.  Theresa,  but  not  a  bit  of 
a  Madonna ;  she  had  been  married,  was  a  wTidow,  and 
(153) 


154  THE    PORTRAIT. 

now,  at  twenty-three,  had  never  dreamed  of  the  latent 
energy  and  strength  that  lay  under  her  softness  and 
sweetness ;  and  she  would  have  been  startled,  and 
possibly  shocked,  at  the  depth  and  fervor  of  the  passions 
that  were  so  deeply"  hidden,  that  they  had  never  whis 
pered  of  their  existence.  If  they  had,  it  was  like  the 
leaves  of  a  tree  moved  by  the  breath  of  night ;  the  tree 
feels  the  stir,  all  unconscious  of  the  cause,  or  of  the 
power  of  a  tempest.  In  all  the  wide  world  within  ken, 
what  can  the  eye  fall  upon  that  so  interests  as  a  gifted 
woman,  perfect  in  her  parts  and  forces,  and  all  un 
conscious  of  her  possessions  and  capabilities,  save, 
indeed,  the  same  woman,  fully  developed,  swayed  and 
controlled,  and  swa}*ing  and  controlling  by  her  latent 
powers?  Does  she  dream  to-day,  —  of  what?  Does 
she  think?  What  occupies  her  mind?  Does  she 
remember,  —  what  images  of  the  past  come  to  her  ? 
Does  she  look  forward,  —  for  what  does  she  hope? 
She  has  suffered,  as  all  do  ;  she  had  lost  the  rarest  of 
mothers ;  she  had  her  young  husband  severed  from 
her  —  oh,  years  ago!  —  and  the  *  image  of  each  came 
with  the  tender  halo  with  which  time  invests  all  our  dead. 
In  the  spring  following  the  visit  of  the  Carmans,  in 
that  now  old  time,  Mrs.  Morris  had  mysteriously  died, 
Death  is  alwa}'s  a  rrrystery,  no  matter  how  natural  the 
cause,  or  how  clearly  foreseen  and  expected.  Why  will 
people  die?  The  blow  shattered  the  famil}',  and  sent 
the  survivors  abroad.  The  Ohio  property  was  sold,  all 
but  the  homestead,  so  sweetly  sacred  to  the  mother's 
memory,  and  so  haunted  with  her  presence.  At  length 
Maud  was  married  to  a  Philadelphia  gentleman,  but 
lived  a  good  deal  of  the  time  with  her  father,  when  at 


BELLE    MORRIS.  155 

his  Ohio  home,  —  and  he  really  had  no  other.  Wher 
ever  the.father  went,  he  was  accompanied  by  Belle,  and 
young  Williams,  a  ward  of  Mr.  Morris,  and  a  shadowy 
relation.  From  an  early  day,  it  was  the  wish  of  Mrs. 
Morris,  and  Edward's  mother,  that  their  young  children 
should  ultimately  become  husband  and  wife.  After  the 
death  of  Mrs.  Williams,  her  son  resided  with  the  Mor 
rises  ;  and  this  favorite  idea,  accepted  and  acted  upon, 
became  the  controlling  one  in  the  association  and  edu 
cation  of  the  young  people,  who  grew  up  with  and  into 
it.  There  was  a  vein  of  religious  enthusiasm  in  the 
nature  of  Mr.  Morris,  which,  in  a  less  cultivated  man, 
would  have  developed  into  fanaticism.  Belle  shared  it 
somewhat,  and  the  idea  of  a  restoration  to  the  church 
of  the  primitive  faith  and  practices,  and,  possibly,  of 
the  gifts  and  graces  of  the  first  disciples,  always  a 
favorite  idea  with  him,  after  the  loss  of  his  wife,  came 
to  exercise  great  control  over  him.  Into  this  current 
the  slight,  dreamy,  imaginative  Edward  early  fell ;  and 
the  three,  living  much  alone,  and  always  together,  and 
with  few  others  about  them,  save  the  teachers  of  the 
children,  floated  dreamily  and  pleasantly  into  unprac 
tical  ways  and  habits  of  life  and  thought. 

When  Belle  was  fifteen,  they  had  spent  many  years 
in  Europe,  and  partly  b}-  reason  of  the  failing  health  of 
Edward,  whose  physical  frame  and  stock  of  vitality 
were  incapable  of  carrying  far,  or  of  enduring  long- 
It  soon  became  apparent  that  a  few  years  would,  at 
the  farthest,  bring  his  life  to  a  close.  The  children 
were  greatly  attached  ;  but  their  love  was  purely  of  a 
spiritual,  unimpassioned  type,  and  .such  as  might  well 
subsist  between  two  enthusiastic  voung  girls.  On  the 


156  THE    PORTRAIT. 

part  of  Edward,  it  was  the  love  of  a  rarefied  devotee 
for  a  canonized  saint,  which  no  touch  of  earth,  had  col 
ored  ;  on  that  of  Belle,  the  tenderness  of  a  sister  for  a 
helpless  brother,  elevated  03*  her  spiritual  sympathies, 
and  an  ardent  and  exalted  wish  to  associate  with  such 
celestial  essences  as  a  purified  soul  may  become  iir 
beatitude  after  death.  As  it  became  apparent  that 
Edward  must  inevitably  soon  undergo  this  change, 
the  desire  to  be  united  in  the  bands  of  marriage 
became  strong  in  their  hearts,  and  Belle's  father  was 
in  a  morbid  frame  of  mind,  which  made  him  readily 
acquiesce.  Maud  and  her  husband  were  in  America, 
and  no  voice  was  there  to  suggest  delay,  or  a  doubt  of 
the  expediency  of  the. proposed  marriage.  When  Belle, 
who  matured  slowly,  was  sixteen,  and  Edward,  who 
was  twenty,  and  incapable  of  maturity,  at  the  Amer 
ican  Legation,  in  Naples,  they  were  married.  No  dif 
ference  in  their  relations  occurred,  and  none  in  their 
mode  of  life,  save  that  they  occupied  a  suite  of  rooms 
in  common  ;  and  when,  at  the  end  of  six  months,  the 
feeble  flame  of  Edward's  life  grew  fainter,  and  at  last 
went  out,  the  bride,  who  had  become  a  widow,  with  the 
deep,  earnest  sorrow  of  a  tender  and  devoted  sister  for 
a  lost  brother,  mourned  for  a  husband  who  was  only  a 
bridegroom.  Nothing  on  earth  was  purer,  tenderer, 
and  holier  than  this  union,  and  none  so  free  from 
the  passion  and  ecstasj"  of  the  lower  world.  The 
mourners  returned  to  the  United  States  with  the  re 
mains  of  the  lost  one.  He  had  lived  the  full  and 
ripened  life  allotted  him,  and  performed  the  only  mission 
possible  to  him.  He  had  been  the  love,  stay,  and  hopo 
of  a  bereaved,  unknowing,  hoping  mother  ;  had  touched 


BELLE    MORRIS.  157 

the  life,  without  mingling  with  its  deeper  current,  of  a 
gifted  young  girl,  and  yet  with  a  force  sufficient  to 
shape  and  prepare  it  for  a  high  mission  ;  and  in  the 
fulness  of  his  time  he  departed. 

On  his  return  to  his  own  country,  Mr.  Morris  felt 
a  revival  of  his  old  interest  in  human  affairs,  and  he 
devoted  himself  to  the  education  of  Belle,  travelled 
much  with  her,  and  finally,  resuming  the  occupancy 
of  his  Ohio  residence,  felt  a  return  of  some  of  the  old 
health  of  spirit. 

Within  the  last  year  Belle  and  Martha  had  met,  and 
formed  veiy  suddenly  one  of  those  miraculous  young- 
women  friendships  ;  and,  while  her  father  had  permit 
ted  himself  to  be  called  off  for  a  month  or  two,  she  had 
accepted  Martha's  invitation  to  spend  the  time  with 
her.  As  she  was  al.su  informed  of  Martha's  engage 
ment,  though  removed  from  the  possibility  of  such  a 
position  by  her  spiritual  wifehood,  which  she  regarded 
as  untouched  by  her  husband's  death,  and  which  would 
render  any  earthly  love  a  spiritual  bigamy,  she  yet  had, 
in  an  intense  degree,  a  young,  fresh,  woman's  —  it  may 
be  said,  a  girl's  —  interests  and  S3'inpathics  in  the  loves, 
engagements,  and  marriages  of  others  ;  for,  with  her, 
marriage  was  eternal.  The  wish  to  be  with  Martha,  to 
talk  over  with  her  all  the  thousand  sweet  and  interest 
ing  little  nothings  that,  spring  out  of  -the  rich  and 
romantic  soil  of  an  engagement  and  approaching  wed 
ding,  for  which  many  preparations  were  going  forward, 
was  much  stronger  than  the  wish  of  joining  Maud  in 
Philadelphia  ;  and  so  she  came  to  Mantua,  as  we  see. 

Her  association  with  her  boy  husband,  her  life  with 
her  father,  her  sisterly  intercourse  with  Maud's  hus- 


158  THE    PORTRAIT. 

band,  a  man  of  the  most  refined  manners,  had  given 
her  an  exalted  ideal  of  the  purity  and  tenderness  of 
man's  nature,  while  her  life,  her  readings,  and  study, 
had-  not  led  her  to  explore  the  annals  of  his  lusts, 
cruelty,  and  brutality ;  and  when  instances  of  his 
grosser  nature  fell  under  her  observation,  they  were 
the  exceptional  outbreaks  of  exceptional  monsters  that 
still  sprang  from  the  great  original  perversion  of  the 
race.  Not  without  noble  uses  was  her  life  ;  and  in  her 
surroundings,  especially  in  Ohio,  the  objects  and  oppor 
tunities  for  charity  were  rare  :  such  as  came  to  her  — 
and  she  was  diligent  in  searching  them  out  —  she  ac 
cepted  thankfully,  and  improved  to  the  utmost.  Xo 
languishing,  shrinking,  frail,  helpless  girl  was  she,  but 
full  of  robust  health  and  spirit,  and  womanliness,  that 
delighted  in  horses,  and  out-door,  exciting  exercise, 
while  the  serene  and  pervasive  inner  life,  in  which 
she  impassively  floated  and  dreamed,  was  due  wholly 
to  the  free  consecration  of  herself  to  the  dim  shadow 
of  the  past,  and  the  absence  of  any  strong  and  in 
spiring  cause  of  change  or  emotion. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

THE    PORTRAIT. 

~P>ELLE  brought  her  riding-dress,  saddle  and  whip 
J— ^  with  her,  and  a  plenty  of  robust  disposition  to 
use  them,  maugre  the  December  weather.  She  had  a 
room  adjoining  Martha's,  and  communicating  with  it, 
and  in  the  atmosphere  of  these  cultivated  young 
women  a  little  world  of  glamour  and  romance  sprang 
up,  jo}"ous  with  mirth,  and  bright  with  ripples  of 
laughs,  and  glad  with  gay  streamlets  of  womanish 
talk.  Both  had  deep  veins  of  feeling  and  sympathy  ; 
both  had  suffered  losses,  both  had  recovered  the  old 
buo^yancy,  and  both  were  healthy  in  soul,  mind  and 
bod}*.  They  had  no  beaux,  no  male  callers,  were  re 
mote  from  a  town,  two  miles  from  a  post-office,  with 
no  near  neighbors.  But  they  had  a  lover,  —  one  who 
for  all  social  purposes  was  held  in  common.  Martha 
had  an  engagement-ring,  and  one  large  room  was  even 
then  in  the  hands  of  a  dressmaker  from  Ravenna,  and 
many  bright  odd  things  of  brides'  wear  were  in  m}-s- 
terious  process  of  fabrication,  or  growth,  or  conjura 
tion,  by  the  hocus  pocus  unknown  to  prosaic  man. 

Martha's   lover  lived  in   Louisville,  was  a  merchant, 
and  a  darling.     Next  to  the  luxury  of  a  lover,  was  the 
luxury  of  a  friend  to  confide  him  to,  and  talk  him  over 
(159) 


1GO  THE    PORTRAIT. 

with.  These,  both  in  perfection,  were  now  Martha's. 
There  never  was  such  a  clear,  sympathizing,  ingenuous 
love  of  a  confidant  as  Belle.  It  all  came  out  ver}-  soon  and 
very  naturally.  Martha  at  first  was  coy  about  details  ; 
but  nothing  could  resist  the  pertinacious,  coaxing,  teas 
ing  Belle,  until  she  knew  it  all,  and  they  talked  it  up  and 
over,  and  in  reverse,  and  by  enfilading.  How  inex 
haustible  it  was  !  It  was  the  old  story,  and  contra 
dicted  the  poetic  maxim.  Their  true  love  ran  smoothly, 
from  its  inception,  and  as  true  should  and  would,  if  let 
alone.  The  curious  Belle  was  anxious  that  Martha 
should  analyze  her  feelings  and  emotions,  separate  and 
explain  them,  so  that  she  might  know  how  she  felt 
towards  her  lover. 

"  I  love  him  !  "  with  a  sweet  frankness. 

"  Yes,  I  know  ;  but  how  do  you  feel  toward  him? " 

"  "Wiry,  Belle  !  and  you,  who  married  the  youth  of 
your  choice,  to  ask  such  a  question  !  Didn't  you  love 
him?" 

"  Of  course  ;  but  different  girls  may  feel  differently, 
3Tou  know." 

"Well,  how  did  you  feel?     Perhaps  we  are  alike." 

This  seemed  fair,  and  Belle  answered :  "  Well,  you 
know,  Edward  and  I  always  lived  and  grew  up  to 
gether  ;  and  our  child  liking  simply  grew  with  us,  and 
in  no  way  changed  with  our  marriage." 

"Was  he  dearer  to  you  than  all  the  world,  —  your 
life  and  soul  ?  " 

"  Of  course  he  was  very  dear  to  me." 

"Did  you  prefer  his  presence  to  that  of  all  others 
under  the  sun  ?  " 


THE    PORTRAIT.  161 

"All  m}-  friends  —  my  father,  my  mother,  Maud, 
and  Edward  —  all  give  me  exquisite  happiness." 

"  Oh,  fudge  !  "  exclaimed  the  mocking  Martha  ; 
"  you  were  never  in  love." 

"So  Maud  says,  and  sometimes  she  is  out  of  patience 
with  me,  and  asks  me  why  I  cling  to  that  ghost  of  a 
shadow.  She  says  our  marriage  was  the  union  of  a 
doll  with  a  rag  baby,  and  wonders  I  will  regard  it  as 
binding." 

"  Do  you  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  marriage,  —  sacred  and  solemn,  and  for 
eterrn'tj" ;  'the  twain  became  one.'" 

"  '  One  flesh,'  "  said  Martha,  a  little  contemptuously, 
"  not  one  spirit." 

"  Why,  Martha  ;  3-011  sweet,  pious  girl,  — you  shock 
me  !  Don't  you  look  forward  to  an  eternal  union  with 
your  Henry  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  He  is  a  man  to  me,  the  one  of 
his  sex,  my  ideal,  —  and  I  love  as  a  fond,  weak,  pas 
sionate  girl  loves  such  a  man.  I  believe  in  him  ;  I 
want  to  be  his  wife.  To  serve  him,  cheer  him,  make 
him  happy,  die  for  him  or  with  him,  and  go  and  be 
with  him !  "  said  the  warm-hearted  and  somewhat  ex 
cited  girl. 

"And  this  is  woman's  love  for  man,"  musingly; 
"  and  man's  for  woman,  the  real  noble  and  true,  is 
worship,  made  up  of  reverence  and  tenderness  ;  cherish 
ing,  sustaining,  protecting,  carrying  !  "  And  dropping 
her  face  for  a  moment,  she  arose  and  went  to  a 
window. 

"Oh,  Belle!  Belle!"  said  Martha,  "  with  all  your 
11 


1G2  THE    PORTRAIT. 

wonderful  gifts,  which  the  noblest  man  alive  hardly 
deserves,  I  wish  you'd  fall  in  love." 

"  Why,  Martha  !  I  have  a  husband.  You  wicked 
thing.'' 

"  Well,  I  do,  and  I  hope  to  live  to  see  it." 

"  Thank  you,  Martha.  Do  you  believe  persons  ever 
fall  in  love,  as  you  call  it?  You  did  not.  Do  you 
put  so  much  faith  in  the  poets  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  believe  it.  I  believe  that  it  sometimes  hap 
pens  that  two  who  are  specially  fitted  for  each  other, 
and  neither  has  an}'  existing  fancy,  may  see  and  feel 
this  fitness  at  once,  and  so  fall  in  love.  Don't  3^011  ?" 

'"  I  don't  know.  The  nearest  I  ever  came  to  such  a 
thing,  was  with  a  portrait  which  I  saw  in  Florence. 
It  was  of  a  man  who  had  died,  and  the  husband  of 
another,  and  as  old  as  my  father.  It  was  the  portrait 
of  the  last  of  one  of  the  old  Huguenot  families  of  South 
Carolina.  There  were  generations  of  that  old  Norman 
blood,  once  ennobled,  in  him,  and  you  could  see  it  in 
every  lineament  of  his  face.  Something  lofty,  and 
noble,  that  would  easily  become  haughty,  but  was  soft, 
sweet,  and  somehow  compelling.  When  that  portrait 
—  it  was  full  length  —  steps  down  from  its  sort  of 
rustic  frame,  like  the  entrance  into  an  arbor,  and  comes 
to  me,  I  shall  fear  for  myself." 

"  Wiry,  Belle,  you  are  enthusiastic.  I  hope  you'll 
meet  him." 

"  I  used  to  go  cver}T  day  and  stand  before  it ;  and 
the  original  was  one  that  a  noble,  true  woman  did  fall 
in  love  with,  and  her  life  has  been  tragically  wretched. 
I  will  tell  you  the  stoiy  some  time.  We  were  then  at 


THE    PORTRAIT.  1G3 

her  house,  every  day  for  weeks,  and  Edward  began  to 
dislike  my  looking  at  the  portrait  so  much." 

"  Jealous  of  a  portrait !     lie  was  a  queer  man." 

"  No,  not  jealous  ;  but  he  thought  my  interest  in  the 
story  was,  perhaps,  almost  unhealthy. " 

"Tell  it  to  me,  —  do." 

"  Not  now ;  we  were  talking  of  love,  and  bright 
things.  Wait  till  some  day  when  we  are  in  the  mood." 

"  I've  been  wondering  whether  Fred  might  eome 
while  you  are  here.  Mr.  Skinner  said  that  he  saw  him 
last  summer,  and  he  said  he  meant  to  come  to  Mantua 
this  winter.  I  wish  he  would.  He  is  of  the  high  and 
noble  look  of  your  portrait.  Oh  !  I'd  give  the  world 
to  have  you  two  fall  in  love." 

"•  Tell  me  about  him.  I  remember  him  as  a  very 
hanllsome  boy,  and  my  mother  was  much  taken  by 
him,  and  I  want  much  to  know  what  became  of  him." 

"  Not  to-night,"  said  Martha,  pensively.  "  His 
story,  too,  has  something  of  sadness,  even  the  little  I 
know  of  him,  and  his  last  visit  here  was  in  that  awful 
time,  —  not  to-night ;  to-morrow,  or  some  time." 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

FRED. 

YOU  promised,"  said  Belle,  one  day,  when  the 
girls  were  in  a  grave  mood,  "  to  tell  me  some 
thing  about  Fred  Warden  ;  do  }*ou  feel  like  it  now  ?  " 

"  You  will  not.  think  ill  of  poor,  dear  mother.  She, 
like  others,  has  her  peculiarities,  and  one  of  them  was 
to  dislike  and  distrust  poor  Fred.  She  was  honest  in 
the  feeling,  and  could  not  help  it.  Poor,  dear  mother, 
what  would  she  not  give,  and  all  of  us,  to  recall  some 
tilings  of  the  past !  "  very  softly  and  sadly. 

"  Fred  lived  with  us  for  about  two  years,  as  a  bound 
boy.  How  strange  that  seems  to  me  !  He  was  faith 
ful,  quiet,  and  unassuming.  You've  heard  —  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  a  little  impatiently. 

"  Well,  of  course  he  knew  of  that,  and  seemed  wry 
sad  for  a  long  time  after  we  came  back  from  3rour  house  ; 
I  think  he  must  have  heard  something  while  we  were  gone. 
He  never  went  anywhere,  unless  specially  asked,  and  sel 
dom  then  ;  when  not  at  work  he  was  reading,  unless  he 
was  in  the  woods  with  a  gun,  or  training  a  horse,  lie 
went  to  school  the  two  winters,  and  I  remember  him  as 
very  quiet,  very  pleasant,  and  thoughtful.  Father  was 
very  much  attached  to  him,  and  he  and  'Lias  became 
very  warm  friends,  or  would  have  been.  Well,  mother 
(164) 


FRED.  165 

did  not  like  him,  could  not  bear  him  ;  ho  could  do 
nothing  to  suit  her,  and  finally  did  not  try  much.  She 
seemed- somehow  to  fear  that  Sarah  would  think  too 
much  of  him,  and  was  finding  wa}'s  to  keep  him  at  work 
in  the  kitchen,  or  somewhere,  and  I  fear  he  did  not  for 
get  that  he  was  a  bound  bo}*,  whatever  else  he  may 
have  had  to  remember  ;  and  the  older  he  grew,  the 
more  attentive  mother  became,  and  her  watchfulness 
increased.  Father  is  eas}',  and  perhaps  was  not  very 
observing,  and  I  don't  know  what  he  could  do,  had  he 
known  everything.  Fred  never  complained  to  father, 
and  never  answered  mother  back  ;  but  I  could  see,  as  I 
grew  older,  that  the  poor  fellow  had  a  sad  life  of  it. 
Sarah  was  gone  away  a  year  to  school,  and  then  he 
was  less  annoyed,  but  then  mother  seemed  to  be  afraid 
of  his  influence  over  Elias.  When  Sarah  came  home 
from  school,  things  were  worse  than  ever.  She  was  a 
young  lady,  and  Fred  almost  a  young  man,  and  could 
do  many  things  for  her.  Heaven  knows  no  young 
man  could  be  more  modest  and  respectful,  and  Sarah 
was  very  much  inclined  to  treat  him  as  he  deserved.  I 
ne,ver  knew  what  mother's  real  intentions  were,  whether 
to  annoy  him,  until  he  would  go,  or  what.  It  came 
finally  to  a  crisis.  I  can't  remember  —  don't  know1 
that  I  ever  knew  —  what  the  last  cause  was.  I  fear 
what  preceded  it  was  more  than  ample.  Sarah  and  I 
were  both  present.  —  it  was  in  our  garden,  and  he  had 
been  doing  something  for  her.  when  mother  came,  and 
spoke  sharply  to  him  for  it.  Then  he  turned  to  her 
very  quietly,  and  said  —  he  was  very  pale,  and  there 
was  something  queer  in  his  eyes  which  J  will  never 
forget  — 'Mrs.  Carman'  — he  was  always  accustomed 


1G6  THE    PORTRAIT. 

to  address  her  in  this  way  — '  Mrs.  Carman,  I  will 

go.'  'Go  —  go  where?  you '  Poor  mother  had 

a  temper  and  a  tongue  ;  and "  —  holding  down  her 
head  —  "  we  had  to  hear  her.  Sarah  walked  away. 
I  remained.  Fred  soon  went.  He  went  up  to  the 
room  —  which  is  now  mine  —  where  he  slept,  and  packed 
up  his  few  things,  and  came  down.  Mother  remained 
under  the  influence  of  her  temper,  and  told  him  to 
leave  them  ;  that  if  he  went  he  would  go  as  he  came, 

a  .  He  laid  down  the  bundle,  his  overcoat  and 

boots,  and,  without  a  word,  walked  out ;  and  "  —  with 
a  tremor  in  her  voice — "we  never  saw  him  for  six 
years." 

"  Martha  !  Oh,  Martha  !  "  cried  Belle,  in  anguish. 

After  a  moment :  "  Father  was  away  from  home,  and 
when  he  came  nothing  was  done,  and  little  said, — 
father  gathered  up  all  Fred's  things,  had  them  put  in 
good  order,  and  placed  in  a  small  trunk,  and  took  them 
to  Mr.  Skinner's,  one  of  Fred's  friends  ;  but  he  never 
took  them,  and  I  don't  know  what  became  of  them." 

"  If  he  should  ever  marry,"  said  Belle,  "•his  wife  will 
reclaim  that  little  trunk,  if  it  is  in  existence.  What 
became  of  him.?" 

"  Oh,  I  can't  tell !  I  think  he  was  away  for  a  year 
or  two  ;  he  never  did  stay  in  Mantua  after  that.  His 
aunt  or  mother  —  she  may  have  been  neither  —  gave 
him  eight  or  ten  eagles  when  he  left  the  Mormons  ;  he 
showed  them  to  us  once  when  he  first  came.  He 
bought  a  few  books  with  some  of  the  money,  and  must 
have  had  the  rest  when  he  left.  We  used  to  hear  about 
him,  and  all  manner  of  stories,  —  that  hq  had  gone 
back  to  the  Mormons  ;  that  he  had  gone  off  with  a 


FRED.  167 

circus  ;  that  he  was  driving  stage  ;  I  don't  know  what 
all.  There  was  no  truth  in  any  of  them,  as  we  came 
to  know.  When  Jo  Smith  was  tried  at  Chardon,  for 
attempting  to  murder  a  man  by  the  name  of  Newell,  he 
was  there  as  a  witness,  and  seemed  to  have  taken  the 
idea  of  studying  law  ;  and  it  seems  that  he  did,  with  a 
lawyer  by  the  name  of  Carttcr,  at  Canton  or  Massillon, 
or  somewhere  there  ;  and  then,  for  a  time,  we  did  not 
hear  of  him,  and  he  had  partly  gone  out  of  our  minds. 

u  Four  years  ago  " —  after  a  pause  —  "  early  in  Jul}', 
Elias  came  home  from  schook  ill.  We  did  not  feel 
alarmed  about  him  ;  he  was  up  and  about  a  week,  and 
then  grew  worse.  Father,  in  those  days,  was  a  full 
believer  in  the  Thompsonian  practice,  and  had  a  book. 
Well,  he  and  mother  undertook  to  cany  him  through 
a  course  of  medicine,  as  it  is  called,  but  he  grew  much 
worse,  and  we  sent  for  Dr.  Joel  Thompson,  a  son  of 
the  Dr.  Thompson  who  lives,  or  did  live,  in  Shalersville. 

"  Oh,  dear !  I  can't  think  of  those  days  of  horror, 
and  quackery,  of  No.  G,  pnd  lobelia,  without  anguish 
and  indignation.  Everything  was  as  bad  as  bad  could 
be  ;  Elias  was  raving,  delirious.  We  had  never  had  any 
sickness,  and  were  ignorant  and  helpless.  Mother  was 
distracted,  and  father,  poor,  dear,  good,  precious  father, 
was  helpless.  Our  uncles,  aunts  and  cousins  could  do 
nothing ;  father  would  keep  Thompson ;  the  haying 
had  come  on,  the  wheat  was  falling,  and  everything, 
even-where,  was  as  ruinous  and  wretched  as  could 
possibly  be. 

"  In  this  distressed  and  awful  condition  of  everybody 
and  everything,  we  found  Fred  suddenly  in  the  house. 
Oh,  Belle,  what  a  wonderful  and  glorious  thing  a  man 


168  THE    PORTRAIT. 

is  ;  what  an  angel  he  can  be  !  Fred  seemed  like  an 
angel ;  he  was  beautiful,  like  an  angel, —  then.  What  a 
miracle  he  worked  !  tall  and  strong,  and  cool  and  brave, 
and  low-voiced,  with  the  step  and  touch  of  a  Avoman. 

"  From  the  moment  he  stepped  in  he  was  king,  as 
such  men  are.  Dr.  Thompson  vanished,  and  his  old 
steam-tub  and  pepper  went  with  him.  A  man  went  off 
with  his  horse  on  the  run,  for  Dr.  Moore  and  Dr.  Earl, 
who  came,  and  held  a  consultation,  and  the  battle  for 
Elias's  life  began,  in  earnest ;  father  and  mother  abdi 
cated,  and  Fred  and  cousin  Martin  took  the  whole  care 
of  Elias.  Fred  would  take  .him  up  and  handle  him  as 
easily  as  if  he  had  been  a  baby,  and  as  tenderly.  For 
ten  days  —  for  ten  da}'s  —  I  believe  he  never  left  him  ; 
and  when  the  fever  broke,  and  he  came  to,  and  it  was 
less  labor  to  take  care  of  him,  Fred  went  out  among 
the  farm-hands,  where  everything  was  at  loose  ends, 
and  in  two  or  three  days  he  put  things  to  rights.  He 
was  born  not  only  to  command,  but  to  do  also.  Elias 
continued  to  mend.  I  remember  Fred  spent  an  after 
noon  with  us.  and  how  cheerful,  and  hopeful,  and  happy 
we  all  were  ;  mother  could  not  do  and  say  enough ;  and 
Fred  waved  her  off,  and  would  not  let  her  talk ;  he  told 
her  when  Elias  was  well  it  would  be  time.  He  was 
then  about  twenty-two,  and  still  boyish,  but  had  that 
lofty  look  and  way  which  you  described  as  belonging 
to  that  portrait.  lie  told  us  something-.x>f  himself.  It 
seems  that  ever  since  he  heard  Mr.  Campbell,  he  had 
dreamed  of  becoming  a  public  speaker.  He  described 
the  trial  of  Jo  Smith,  and  the  advocates,  whose 
speeches  made  a,  great  impression  on  him,  especially 
those  of  Mr.  Andrews,  of  Cleveland,  and  Mr.  Cartter 


FEED.  169 

and  it  seems  that  Mr.  Cartter  had  taken  a  fancy  to 
him,  and  helped  him,  and  he  had  then  just  completed 
his  studies  and  been  admitted.  He  told  us,  too,  how- 
he  heard  of  Elias's  sickness,  and  came  to  us  at  once." 

Here  she  paused  for  a  moment,  while  Belle  sat  silent, 
•with  eyes  fixed  intently  upon  her  face. 

"  Oh,  dear  !  Elias  had  a  fatal  relapse  ;  nothing  could 
help  or  save  him,  and  in  two  days  he  —  died  — 

"We  lived  through  it;  —  folks  will.  1  only  know 
that  in  it  all,  and  through  it  all,  Fred  stood  in  our 
centre  to  do  and  cheer  and  comfort.  Well,  when  we 
came  back  from  the  cemetery  he  had  gone,  and  from 
that  day  to  this  we  have  never  one  of  us  seen  him." 
And  she  covered  her  face,  and  for  a  moment  gave  way. 

"  Martha  !  Martha  !  "  throwing  herself  on  her  knees 
at  the  sobbing  girl's  feet,  and  clasping  her  waist,  "  don't 
say  that !  Surely,  surely  he  would  stay  to  be  thanked. 
You  have  seen  him  since  ?  " 

"  Never  ;  and  we  never  quite  understood  it.  He  did 
not  go  to  the  grave  with  us.  I  don't  know  why.  Per 
haps  he  who  thought  of  everything  and  everybody,  was 
himself  forgotten  ;  nobody  asked  him  to  go  ;  and  you 
know  he  could  not  help  being  sensitive,  when  you  re 
member  —  " 

"  I  would  have  gone  after  him,"  said  Belle,  impet 
uously. 

k'  So  would  I,  now.  Father  and  mother  were  old, 
and  utterly  prostrated.  We  had  no  brother  ;  we  wrote 
him,  and  all  joined  in  the  letter,  —  such  a  letter  as  you 
may  imagine.  He  answered  it,  —  a  very  kind,  gentle, 
but  to  me,  a  very  sad  letter.  I  won't  try  to  repeat  it,  —  I 


170  THE    PORTRAIT. 


show  it  to  you  some  time.  Its  sadness  was  more 
in  what  it  did  not  say,  perhaps."  A  long  silence. 

"Well,  what  became  of  him?  Is  he  alive  still? 
Surely  there  must  be  a  future  for  him." 

"  lie  lives  at  Massillon,  I  believe,  about  fort}1'  miles 
from  here,  and  occasionally  attends  court  at  Ravenna, 
and  we  hear  him  very  well  spoken  of.  Father  don't 
like  lawyers.  Indeed,  the  disciples  in  this  region  gen- 
erall}-  do  not." 

"  Martha  "•  —  from  her  place  on  the  carpet  —  "that 
3roung  man  should  have  been  brought  back  here,  and 
you  should  have  been  his  reward.  I  don't  know  about 
this  Henry,"  seriously.  "Would  that  —  you  know 
what  —  have  prevented  your  loving  him?" 

"  No  ;  a  true  woman  would  only  love  him  the  more 
and  better,"  decidedly. 

"You  are  a  true  woman,  Mattie,  dear,  ain't  you?" 
After  a  pause  :  "  What  a  sad  story  this  is  ;  after  all,  he 
could  not  be  quite  perfect,  or  he  would  have  remained, 
at  least,  for  thanks." 

"  Don't  blame  him  ;  I  won't  hear  that,  if  I  do  con 
demn  my  own  mother." 

"  And  what  does  she  say  about  him  now?  " 

"  Not  much  ;  but  I  believe  she  nearly  adores  him. 
There  would  be  nothing  too  good  for  him  now." 

"  Oh,  Mattie,  what  a  mistake  !  He  should  have  come 
back,  and  you  and  he  should  have  loved  and  married." 

"I  think,"  said  Martha,  "he  will  never  marry  a 
common  woman  ;  he  would  not  love  such  an  one.  Oh, 
if  he  would  only  come  while  you  are  here  !  " 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

THE    PORTRAIT    STEPS    FROM    ITS    FRAME. 

SO  Belle  stood  musing  at  the  window,  as  we  see. 
All  the  matters  sketched  in  the  two  last  chapters 
had  occurred,  and  were  narrated  to  her  before.  Her 
ej'es  were  fixed  musingly  on  the  outer  wintiy  world, 
her  thoughts  with  her  real  self  were  on  the  story  of 
Fred,  which  had  somehow  very  much  impressed  her ; 
so  much  so,  that,  cool  and  unimpressionable  as  she  was, 
she  was  surprised  at  it.  As  her  unseeing  gaze  wan 
dered  along  the  line  of  the  front  fence,  from  the  large 
gate  at  the  left  of  the  house,  where  the  old  pear-tree 
stood,  to  the  small  gate  leading  directly  across  the 
little  front  lawn  to  the  front  door,  and  over  which  was 
a  rustic  arbor  covered  with  climbing,  leafless  vines, 
she  started  with  amazement.  Was  it  a  dream?  Had 
her  revery,  in  its  strength,  grouped  all  the  fragments 
and  elements  that  had  occupied  her  thought,  and 
framed  the  wonderful  optical  illusion  that  for  a  mo 
ment  flashed  on  her  vision?  For  there,  framed  in  the 
rude  arbor's  entrance,  living  and  breathing,  was  the 
portrait  of  Florence.  The  same  lofty,  noble  counte 
nance  and  speaking  eyes,  the  half  wilful  mouth,  that 
would  break  into  a  smile,  or  set  with  will  and  pride. 
There  was  the  brow  in  its  strength  and  volume,  with  its 
(171) 


172  THE    PORTRAIT. 

possible  haughtiness  ;  but  now  bending  with  softness 
over  the  eyes,  youthful  and  full  of  more  excellence  thun 
mere  beauty.  It  was  but  a  moment ;  but  it  was  all 
there,  and  real.  The  figure  moved  forward,  —  the  hat 
was  replaced  ;  and  taking  the  path  that  led  around  the 
back  wajT,  instead  of  coming  to  the  front  door,  passed 
before  her  03*68  a  real,  veritable  man,  in  the  flesh, 
walking  and  breathing,  and  leaving  his  impress.  —  Did 
she  remember  what  she  told  Martha? 

Belle  placed  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  and  tried  to 
think.  She  could  only  see.  A.  mystery  was  somehow 
solved,  or  rather  an  awful  nvystcry  was  made  palpable 
to  her.  She  knew,  as  by  revelation,  that  there  must  be 
the  nearest  possible  relation  between  that  portrait  and 
this  vision,  if  it  was  real.  And  while  she  stood  still 
transfixed  with  this  certainty,  Martha  flashed  in,  watery 
and  radiant,  from  the  dining-room  : 

"  Oh,  Belle,  he  has  come  !  Fred,  Fred  has  come, 
and  more  glorious  than  ever ; "  and  taking  the  half- 
entranced  girl  by  the  hand,  she  drew  her  into  the  din 
ing-room.  The  vision  was  very  real.  There  was  the 
veritable  3*oung  man,  bending  over  the  clinging,  sob 
bing,  broken,  repentant  Aunt  Mary,  and  trying  to 
assure  and  reassure  her,  —  "•  That  he  was  not  one  to  be 
loved  or  regarded.  He  was  only  to  love  and  serve 
others,  and  go  ;  he  was  born  to  that." 

How  the  words  went  into  the  heart  of  the  still  won 
dering  Belle ! 

"  Fred,"  said  Martha,  as  her  mother  recovered  her 
self,  "do  you  remember  Belle  Morris ?"  The  3'oung 
man  turned,  and  never,  not  even  in  the  Pavilion  of 
Vision,  had  his  eyes  rested  on  such,  to  him,  uniniagiued 


THE    PORTRAIT    STEPS    FROM    ITS    FRAME.  173 

loveliness.  A  moment,  and  recovering  his  seldom-dis 
turbed  self-possession  : 

"Belle  Morris?  Can  tins  be  Miss  Morris?  Ire- 
member  her,  and  her  kind,  very  kind  mother,  perfectly 
well."  Yet  wondering  if  this  could  be  her. 

Belle,  still  dazed,  for  the  illusion  was  now  real,  gave 
him  her  little  marvel  of  a  hand,  and  only  murmured 
some  indistinct  words,  like  the  warble  of  a  bird. 

"Not  Belle  Morris,  —  I  must  correct.  —  Mrs.  Wil 
liams  ;  Mr.  "Warden."  And  marking  the  effect  of  this 
announcement,  —  "•  The  case  is  not  desperate  ;  Mr.  Wil 
liams  was  alwaj's  a  little  shadowy  —  3*ou  deserve  that, 
Belle  —  and  vanished  while  Belle  was  a  little  girl,  — 
and  for  you,  she  is  Belle  Morris." 

"  Martha,  Martha,  you  are  awful !  "  from  Aunt  Mary. 

"  Mother,  I'm  kind  and  merciful,"  said  the  wilful 
girl,  a  little  archl}*. 

"  She  who  wears  this,"  said  the  recovering  Belle, 
taking  Martha's  hand,  and  exhibiting  the  betraying 
solitaire,  "might,  in  her  happiness,  be  forbearing." 

"Oh,  Martha!"  exclaimed  Fred,  "let  me  congrat 
ulate  you,"  taking  the  now  blushing  girl's  hand 
warmly;  "in  the  world  there  is  at  least  one  very 
happ}*  man,  I  know." 

"  I  hope  so,"  in  a  little,  sweet  voice ;  "  and  now  I 
here  appoint  you  two  bridesmaid  and  groomsman." 

"  You  forget !  —  I  am  a  widow,"  said  Belle. 

"  You  a  widow  !  Why,  it  was  only  the  other  day 
that  you  said  you  were  a  married  woman.  We  won't 
be  defrauded  this  way.  Maid,  wife,  or  widow,  or  all 
of  them,  if  you  are  not  my  bridesmaid,  I  will  not- 

"  Be  married  ?  "  asked  Belle. 


174  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"Not  have  any  —  I  hope  to  be  married,"  with  the 
little  voice  again. 

And  now,  Aunt  Mary,  having  fully  recovered  all  her 
motherl}',  housewifely  instincts,  came  back  in  force. 

"  You  must  have  some  dinner." 

"  I  had  my  dinner  at  my  friend  Turner's." 

"  Have  3*011  a  horse,  —  or  carriage  ?  " 

"  I  walked  up  from  there  ;  "  and  after  a  pause  :  "  Mrs. 
Carman,  may  I  stay  here  a  day  or  two?  I  won't  much 
annoy  the  young  ladies.  I  came  back  to  Mantua, 
and  the  wish  to  come  back  here  was  so  strong,  that 
I  haven't  even  called  on  Uncle  Bill  Skinner ;  for,  after 
all,  this  is  the  only  home  I've  ever  known."  He  was 
not  sentimental ;  but,  spite  of  him,  there  was  a  tremor 
in  his  voice  and  a  moisture  in  his  eye. 

"Stay  here!  stay  here!"  cried  the  again  sobbing 
Aunt  Mary  ;  "  you  shall  always  stay  here  !  Let  this 
always  be  your  home  !  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  yon  came  !  I 
thought  I  was  never  to  see  and  thank  you,  and  it  —  " 

"  No  matter  !  not  a  word  of  that !  I  am  a  thousand 
times  repaid  !  "  very  brightly  and  gayly  ;  and,  turning 
off,  he  dashed  at  a  dozen  things,  —  asked  all  about  Mr. 
Carman,  and  Sarah,  and  her  husband  and  children,  and 
the  fai-m,  and  old-time  things,  going  back  to  his  res 
idence,  and  then  about  the  neighbors,  —  Hiram  Spencer, 
Judge  Carman's  folks,  Uncle  Zach,  and  so  on.  Then  he 
turned  to  Belle,  and  grew  grave  and  thoughtful ;  and 
all  the  time  she  watched  and  observed  him,  and  asked 
herself  a  thousand  insoluble  questions.  Thei'e  could  be 
no  mistake  ;  this  was  the  veritable  son  ;  there  was  crime, 
or  an  awful  mistake  somewhere.  Could  there  havo 


THE    PORTRAIT    STEPS    FROM    ITS    FRAME.  175 

been  two  sons  ?  And  she  thought  of  what  was  said  of 
the  shadow  on  Fred,  and  sighed. 

Soon  Uncle  Seth  came  in,  and  broke  completely 
down,  and  would  talk  about  Elias.  That  preciously 
sad  subject  and  dark  day  had  to  be  gone  over  with. 

They  were  almost  made  happy  by  the  man}'  pleasant 
things  that  Fred  remembered  of  him,  —  things  many 
of  which  they  then  heard  for  the  first  time.  So  they 
passed  out  of  gloom  again  into  warmth  and  sunshine, 
mellowed  and  softened  by  the  renewed  memory  of  a 
great  and  common  loss. 

Aunt  Mar}-  was  to  have  company  that  night  —  two 
or  three  distinguished  preachers  of  the  disciple  per 
suasion —  and  was  under  preparation  for  a  supper. 
Uncle  Seth  had  been  benignantly  looking  forward  to 
their  arrival  as  a  season  of  refreshing,  and  even  Martha 
and  Belle  were  not  without  some  exhilaration  conse 
quent  upon  the  expected  advent  of  the  ministers,  and 
not  without  a  little  anxiety  on  Fred's  account,  who  was 
rated  an  unbeliever  ;  one  of  the  expected  was  noted  for 
the  honest  fervor  with  which  he  admonished  that  class, 
with  little  reference  to  time,  place,  or  circumstances, 
having  regard  to  eternity  alone. 

AVhcn  the  guests  arrived,  they  came  in  the  usual  way 
in  farm-houses,  and  entered  by  the  rear,  where  they 
were  received  by  the  expectant  elders,  removed  their 
outer  coats  and  wraps,  and  lingered  for  the  warmth  of 
the  generous  hickory  lire,  always  burning  in  the  huge, 
jammed  old  fireplace.  Then  they  were  shown  into 
the  front  sitting-room,  to  interrupt  a  very  pleasant 
flow  of  talk  between  Belle  and  Fred,  who,  sitting  in  the 
glow  of  the  red  fire  at  the  twilight,  felt  wonderfully  ac- 


176  THE    PORTRAIT. 

quainted  within  the  two  hours  since  their  meeting.  In 
their  rambling  talk,  Belle,  in  the  most  innocent  way  in 
the  world,  had  told  him  of  a  singular  name,  and  how  it 
came.  A  gentleman,  a  descendant  of  the  Huguenots, 
Messed  with  a  beautiful  infant  son,  had  a  Saxon  friend 
b}*  the  name  of  Ethwold  Alfred,  and  he  bestowed  both 
names  upon  his  heir,  and  insisted  upon  using  both  as 
if  they  were  a  single  name.  The  child's  mother  had, 
for  convenience,  formed  a  new  one  from  the  two,  by 
putting  the  first  and  last  syllables  together,  and  called 
him  Ethfred. 

"  Ethfred,  —  Ethfred,"  repeated  Fred,  thoughtfully, 
"  I've  heard  that  name  !  " 

"That  is  very  strange,"  answered  Belle.  "I  pre 
sume  there  never  could  have  been  but  one  child  named 
Ethfred." 

"  I've  heard  it ;  it  has  haunted  my  dreams  ;  and  I 
never,  while  waking,  could  recall  it.  Ethfred,  —  that 
is  it.  I  could  remember  that  it  had  some  sound  of  my 
own  name." 

"  The  last  syllable  is  Fred  ;  and  by  dropping  the 
first,  which  is  not  pleasant,  you.  would  be  Fred,  as  you 
are,"  pla3'fully.  "  What  else  have  you  dreamed  of, 
pray  ?  "  lightly  and  brightly. 

"  Oh,"  laughing,  "  I  had  a  brain  fever  when  I  was 
twelve,  and  I  know  not  what  when  I  was  with  the  Mor 
mons,  —  that  was  the  land  of  dreams." 

"You  must  have  had  some  funny  experiences.  Did 
you  dream  of  this  name  there?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  dreamed  I  was  lying  on  the  ground  on 
flowers,  with  wonderful  flowers  about  me ;  the  air  was 
full  of  fragrance,  and  a  beautiful  face  was  over  me,  — 


THE    PORTRAIT    STEPS    FROM   ITS    FRAME.  177 

the  face  of  a  woman,  who  called  me  '  Etbfred'  —  I'm 
now  sure  that  was  the  name  —  and  before  me  arose  a 
wonderful  tree,  —  a  palm,  such  as  we  see  in  pictures  of 
the  East.  I  seem  to  have  dreamed  this  two  or  three 
times." 

"  It  is  very  funny.     Did  it  ever  —  " 

The  door  opened,  and  in  strode  John  Henry  —  not 
the  Rev.  John,  they  never  had  that  title  appended  — 
a  large,  gaunt,  gray,  coarsely-arrayed  figure,  with  a 
New  England  type  of  head  and  face,  now  much  out  of 
date.  The  deep  gray  eyes,  overhung  by  shaggy  gray 
brows,  were  shrewd,  keen,  but  kindly  ;  the  voice  strong 
and  loud  by  nature  ;  his  manners  were  plain  to  rude 
ness ;  but  he  was,  nevertheless,  a  man  of  power  and 
mark  in  his  day  and  way.  He  was  accompanied  by  a 
younger  man  —  Morse  —  a  gentlemanly  person  of  fail- 
culture  and  much  ability,  and  rather  reticent. 

"  Father  Henry  !  "  cried  Belle,  springing  to  him,  and 
extending  her  hands,  which  he  took  very  cordially,  and 
bending  down  to  her,  with  a  warm  smile  lighting  up 
his  rugged  face,  framed  in  a  fell  of  iron-gray  hair ;  it 
never  could  be  white,  —  the  iron  would  never  leave  it. 
"  Daughter,  daughter  Belle,  bless  you  !  I  fear  for  thee, 
precious  one,  lest  the  snare  of  thy  comeliness  entrap 
thee  in  vanities."  And  holding  up  her  soft  little  hands, 
and  changing  his  style  of  address  :  "  They  toil  not, 
neither  do  they  spin,  O  daughter  Belle,  but  they  do 
meet  works  of  charity  and  kindness  ! "  He  inquired  for 
Brother  Morris  and  Maud,  and  bent  his  brows  several 
times  on  Fred,  who  stood  near,  an  amused  and  inter 
ested  spectator.  "And  who  is  this?  He  looks  like 
a  goodl}-  son  of  the  unbeliever." 
12 


178  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"  Mr.  Warden,  lot  me  introduce  you  to  Father 
Henry,"  said  Belle,  a  little  anxious  to  know  how 
they  would  receive  each  other. 

"  Mr.  Henry,"  said  the  youth  frankly,  stepping  for 
ward,  and  giving  his  hand  with  a  warm,  natural  grace, 
that  few  could  resist,  "  I've  often  heard  your  name,  and 
alwaj's  with  respect ;  I  am  very  glad  to  meet  you." 

"  I  never  heard  your  name  before,  and  am  not  very 
much  rejoiced  to  see  you ;  I  may  be  next  time,"  was 
the  response. 

"  lie's  not  only  an  unbeliever,"  said  Martha,  mis 
chievously,  "but  he's  a  lawyer,  —  one  of  those  awful 
sons  of  Belial." 

"A  lawyer,  and  he  finds  shelter  under  this  roof! 
Young  man,  don't  you  know  that  lawyers  were  specially 
cursed  ?  Woe  to  ye  lawyers  !  "  with  a  sepulchral  voice. 

"  I've  heard  of  that  somewhere,  I  believe,"  smiling, 
almost  laughing ;  "  but  then  I  remember  that  the  same 
high  author  it}'  denounces  the  priests  with  greater 
severity  and  justice." 

"  Indeed,  young  man,  you  should  distinguish  be 
tween  the  Jewish  priesthood  and  the  preachers  of  the 
Word." 

"  I  think  a  slight  distinction  might  also  be  drawn 
between  the  Jewish  lawyer  and  those  of  our  time.  Bat 
really,  m}"  kind,  dear  sir,  I'm  not  lawyer  enough  to  fall 
within  the  curse,"  laughing,  with  infectious  good  na 
ture.  The  old  man  hesitated  in  his  opening  of  half 
banter,  as  if  a  little  in  doubt  what  turn  to  take. 

"  Brother  Henry,"  said  Aunt  Mary,  rushing  in  with 
real  apprehension,  "  this  is  the  young  man  of  whom 


THE    PORTRAIT    STEPS    FROM    ITS    FRAME.  179 

I've  told  }'ou,  who  was  with  us  in  our  days  of  tribula 
tion,  when  our  son  died." 

"  And  it  is  good  to  remember  that.  Young  man,  I 
think  I  shall  like  you,  but  touching  thy  profession,  it 
smacks  wholly  of  darkness." 

Then  Fred  was  introduced  to  Mr.  Morse,  who  evi 
dently  was  pleased  with  him,  and  very  soon  the  girl 
called  to  supper. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

PUT    ON    THE    DEFENSIVE. 

ri  MIE  old-time  farm-house  dining-room  was  one  capa- 
-l-  ciotis  room  originally,  which  was  kitchen,  dining, 
and  family  room,  generally  ;  but  under  Martha's  direc 
tion  new  space  had  been  found  in  the  L  part,  and  a  new 
wall  had  separated  the  dining  and  family  room  from 
the  kitchen.  In  the  former,  Aunt  Man-  now  received 
her  guests,  and  seated  them  at  one  of  her  profuse  and 
well-cooked  suppers.  The  little,  funny,  quaint  old 
teaspoons,  the  bowl  of  one  of  which  would  hardly 
admit  the  tip  of  a  lady's  finger,  were  in  regular  service, 
in  honor  of  Belle  ;  and  these  were  now  supplemented 
with  real  old  China  cups  of  a  great-grandmother,  im 
ported  b}-  a  sea-faring  progenitor. 

A  large  and  beautifully -broAvned  turkey  was  the 
object  of  principal  interest  on  Aunt  Mary's  table, 
which  Uncle  Seth  regarded  with  foreboding,  sur 
rounded  as  he  was  by  guests.  He  thought  of  the 
old  time  when  he  was  assailed  by  a  raging  she-bear,  us 
comfortable  and  pleasant,  comparatively. 

"  Mr.  Warden,"  asked  Aunt  Mary,  suggestively, 
"  have  you  lost  your  knack  of  carving?  " 

"  It's  part  of  a  lawyer's  trade  to  pull  people  and 
*  (180) 


PUT    ON    THE    DEFENSIVE.  181 

things  to  pieces."  remarked  Father  Henry  ;  "  let  us  see 
how  cutting  be  can  be." 

'•  Lawyers,  as  you  call  on  them,  have  been  known  to 
cut  up  -witnesses  and  other  innocents,"  said  the  vonno- 

«.  O 

man,  advancing  upon  the  common  enemy,  and  taking 
up  the  formidable  knife  ;  "  and  as  they  always  carve 
the  whole  to  themselves,  as  Mr.  Henry  will  testifv, 
the}'  ought  not  to  object  to  such  a  service." 

A  rap  from  that  gentleman  called  the  company  to 
order  for  a  short,  sonorous  grace,  when,  with  a  twinkle 
of  his  eye  that  could  be  kindly,  he  asked.  '•  What  can 
be  done  with  the  sinner  who  good-humoredly  confesses 
his  sins,  but  refuses  to  repent?"  Fred,  who  had  no 
disposition  to  discuss  his  profession,  and  was  quite 
content  to  accept  this  as  concluding  the  subject,  ad 
dressed  himself  seriously  to  his  task.  lie  was  that 
rarity  among  American  gentlemen,  especially  at  the 
West.  —  an  artistic  carver.  Had  he  known  the  approv 
ing  admiration  with  which  his  labors  were  regarded, 
and  that  it  was  fully  shared  in  by  Belle,  he  would 
have  felt  rewarded  for  the,  to  him.  slight  labor.  As 
the  noble  fowl  lav  in  neatly  sundered  parts,  while  Fred 
was  learning  the  wishes  of  the  guests.  —  "  I'll  warrant, 
now,"  resumed  Father  Henry.  "  that  if  he  was  before  a 
jury,  he'd  put  that  gobbler  together  again,  and  contend 
that  it  was  untouched.  —  perhaps  that  'twas  alive,  and 
ready  to  strut  oif."  Xo  answer,  but  a  good-natured 
smile  from  Fred,  who  dexterously  served  the  whole 
party,  and  gladly  took  a  seat  reserved  for  him  be 
tween  the  young  ladies.  "It  is  a  little  remarkable." 
observed  the  usually  taciturn  Morse.  "  the  vehemence 
and  seeming  sincerity  with  which  lawyers  contend,  on 


182  THE   PORTRAIT. 

directly  opposite  sides ;  and  that,  you  must  admit, 
Mr.  Warden,  leads  candid  men  to  doubt  the  sincerit}*- 
and  candor  of  all  lawyers.  One  certainly  must  be 
wrong." 

"'  Both  may  be,"  quietty  remarked  Fred,  disposed  to 
conclude  any  argument.  "  I  think  I  have  been  in 
formed  that  you  were  formerly  a  Presbyterian?"  he 
observed,  by  way  of  inquiry. 

"  I  was,  at  one  time." 

"  And  that  Mr.  Henry  was  a  Methodist?  " 

"  So  I  am  informed." 

"  It  is  a  little  remarkable,"  he  went  on,  "  the  vehe 
mence  and  seeming  sincerity  with  which  a  Presbyte 
rian  and  a  Methodist  clergyman  contend  on  directly 
opposite  sides  of  the  same  question,  and  that  too  a 
matter  of  direct  revelation,  about  which  there  should 
be  no  doubt ;  baptism,  for  instance,  in  which  you  now 
admit  that  you  were  both  wrong.  You  must  admit,  Mr. 
Morse,  that  this  leads  candid  men  to  doubt  the  sin 
cerity  of  all  preachers."  This  grave  turning  of  tables 
was  done  with  a  mock  seiious  voice,  that  made  it  irre 
sistible,  and  was  greeted  with  a  lond  laugh  from  Father 
Henry. 

•  "  Don't  argue  with  the  devil,  brother  Morse, —  don't 
argue  with  the  devil,  even  on  Bible  questions." 

"  I  know  one  honest  lawyer,"  observed  Uncle  Seth, 
quite  decidedly.  "  Mr.  Da}*,  of  Ravenna,  is  an  honest 
man,  if  there  ever  was  one." 

u  And  everything  in  the  world  but  a  fool,  also,"  said 
Fred.  "  I  suspect  that  he  must  have  been  counsel  for 
you,  in"  some  case." 

u  Yes,  he  was." 


PUT    ON    THE    DEFENSIVE.  183 

"  I  thought  so.  Our  lawyer  is  always  honest.  It's 
the  chap  on  the  other  side  who  outruns  total  depravitj*." 

"  T  believe,"  remarked  Aunt  Mary,  quietly,  "  that 
Mr.  Carman  thinks  that  Mr.  Tildin  is  a  very  bad 
man." 

"  He  was  on  the  other  side.  Oh,  that's  too  bad  !  " 
laughing.  "  Tilclin's  heart  would  compel  him  to  nurse  a 
dying  fly  ;  and  that  mortal  man  should  suspect  him  of 
possible  wrong,  is  too  bad." 

"  Well,  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  replied  Aunt  Mar}', 
with  judicious  doubt  and  gravity. 

*'  Oh,  they  are  a  bad  lot,"  still  laughing ;  "  and  so 
bad,  that  we  go  into  open  court,  in  the  face  of  the  court 
and  jury,  and  in  the  face  of  immediate  and  certain  ex 
posure,  and  lie,  and  re-lie,  right  along,  and  the  fun  of  it 
is,  eA'erybody,  though  knowing  that  we  lie,  neverthe 
less  feels  obliged  to  believe  us, —  it's  too  bad.  While 
your  only  reliable  men  are  your  preacher  and  doctor." 

"  You  are  a  neccssaiy  evil,  no  doubt,"  observed 
Father  Henry,  who  rather  enjoyed  the  play  of  the  young 
man's  spirit  in  the  defence  of  his  profession. 

"Did  you  ever  think  what  a  real  compliment  that  is 
to  the  bar?  The  world  is  so  hopelessly  bad,  so  much 
worse  than  we,  that  it  cannot  get  on  without  us.  Then 
if  it  was  virtuous,  and  holy,  what  use  would  it  find  for 
preachers  and  priests?  Poor,  wicked  old  world,  let  us 
each  serve  it  in  our  way,  and  not  quarrel  with  each 
other." 

';I  fear  the  young  man  was  born  for  a  lawyer,"  said 
Father  Henry,  turning  to  Belle ;  "  and  perhaps  we 
should  not  be  too  hard  upon  him  for  what  he  can't  help." 


184  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"  Especially,"  added  that  young  lady,  "  when  he  says 
that  he  is  not  lawyer  enough  to  fall  within  the  curse." 

The  supper  was  finished,  the  guests  arose,  two  or 
three  neighbors  dropped  in,  new  groups  were  formed, 
and  new  interests  were  discussed,  with  cider,  apples, 
and  nuts,  by  the  hickoiy  fires,  and  the  winter  night 
wore  on  to  the  hour  of  retiring. 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

BELLE'S  REVERT. 


E  thoughtful  Bell  sat,  —  not  musing,  but  thinking, 
actually  and  not  illogically,  as  women  can  think, 
and  often  do.  How  passing  beautiful  she  was,  as  she 
sat  with  her  peerless  head  upon  her  hand,  whose 
little  slender  fingers  were  bent  back  by  the  weight, 
with  the  ruddy  glow  from  the  embers  rich  on  her  cheek  ; 
and  what  funny  thoughts  for  a  girl  !  He  had  heard 
that  barbarous  name  —  Ethfred  —  in  his  dreams,  he 
said;  but  why  in  his  dreams?  of  wli.it  are  dreams 
made?  Then  there  came  into  her  mind  the  discussion 
of  dreams  between  her  father  and  Marbury.  Is  there 
a  new  faculty  born  of  sleep,  or  do  we  get  new  power? 
or  do  some  organs  sleep  and  leave  others  awake,  which, 
thus  unbalanced,  play  such  phantasies?  Dreams  must 
be  made  of  something  seen  or  heard,  of  course  they 
must  ;  so  if  he  dreamed  of  this  name,  he  must  have 
heard  it,  and  there  never  was  but  one  child  who  bore 
it.  No  wonder  it  brought  bad  luck.  He  has  seen 
pictures  of  palms,  and  their  surroundings,  and  could 
dream  of  them,  though  he  undoubtedly  dreamed  of  what 
he  saw,  and  the  woman  bending  over  him  was  his 
mother,  and  called  him  by  name  under  a  palm  in  Cuba. 
(185) 


186  THE    PORTRAIT. 

lie  was  not  a  cousin,  for  the  father  had  no  brothers  or 
sisters,  nor  could  he  be  a  brother,  for  his  name  was 
"Ethfred,"  and  she  clasped  her  hands.  It  might  not 
be,  and  not  a  word  would  she  utter  to  him  until  it  was 
made  certain.  The  germs  of  these  thoughts  were  intu 
itions.  They  formed  their  final  ciystallization  nat 
urally,  and  by  no  conscious  process.  And  then  the  man 
himself  stood  before  her,  warm  and  gentle,  with  the 
mute  beseeching  light  in  his  e}*es,  so  noble  and  tender, 
and  so  abused  by  fortune  through  all  the  cruel  }rears. 

Oh,  to  serve  him,  to  have  his  gratitude,  to  have  — 
Well,  what  was  the  danger?  Hadn't  she  a  husband,  — 
in  heaven,  to  be  sure,  but  it  did  not  occur  to  her  that 
lie  thus  left  his  widow  defenceless.  But  where  was 
Martha?  Could  she  have  stolen  off  to  bed?  Did  she 
mean  to  throw  her  and  Fred  upon  each  other  for  so 
ciety  ?  It  was  like  Mattie.  Her  watch  showed  that  it 
was  half-past  eleven,  when  nine  or  half-past  was  ortho 
dox  bed-time,  —  broken  over  this  evening  by  the  elders 
for  company.  So  she  tripped  lightly  up  to  her  warm 
room,  cheery  with  the  red  light  of  the  wood  embers, 
with  grave  thoughts  in  her  head,  and  a  little  glow7  — 
just  a  little  flutter  —  in  her  veins.  She  arrayed  herself 
for  the  night,  and  pushing  open  the  door  into  Martha's 
darkened  room,  stepped  lightly  to  the  side  of  the 
sleeper.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  and  lifting  the 
clothes,  "  You  bad,  bad,  Mattie,"  in  a  sweet  little  voice, 
laid  herself  in  her  night  robes,  close  by  a  warm  side, 
and  was  about  to  pass  one  arm  over  the  sleeping  form, 
when  —  .  Shocked,  but  without  sense  of  injury  ;  con-, 
fused,  but  with  clear  perception  ;  alarmed,  yet  feeling 
no  fear  ;  repelled,  yet  singularly  attracted,  she  stepped 


BELLE'S  REVERT.  187 

noisely  upon  the  floor,  and  in  an  instant  the  door  softly 
closed  between  the  two. 

Poor  Fred  !  "  Poor  Fred  ?  "  Yes,  poor  Fred  !  It  might 
mark  my  page  were  I  to  portra)-  the  low  ideal  which 
the  average  young  man  has  of  the  purity  of  woman. 
It  may  possibly  not  be  given  to  the  masculine  percep 
tion  to  fully  appreciate  the  innate,  healthy,  inner  stain- 
lessness  of  a  true  woman.  Possibly  the  language  which 
would  express  it  might  convey  no  meaning  to  him  ;  and 
were  I  to  see  it,  by  some  miracle  in  my  text,  I  might  find 
it  cloud}",  transcendental,  and  needing  change.  I  suspect 
that  nothing  so  alarms  the  sensibilities  of  a  woman 
as  when  she  comes,  by  a  slow  succession  of  shocks,  to 
apprehend  as  well  as  she  may  the  gross  nature  of  man. 
Fred  may  have  shared  in  his  sex's  want  of  discernment 
in  this  respect,  but  like  a  great,  a  very  great  many 
young  men,  he  had  set  up  in  his  soul's  inner  shrine  an 
ideal  of  womanhood,  the  crowning  grace  of  which 
was  this  nncomprehended  purity,  —  a  tiling  to  be  wor 
shipped,  if  not  understood  ;  any  profanation  of  which 
would  be,  in  his  eyes,  that  nameless  crime  for  which  no 
pardon  could  be  possible  ;  and  in  some  sort  he  now  felt 
guilt}'  of  this  crime. 

Miss  Boothe  had  stepped  in  late,  and  he  had,  with 
Martha,  accompanied  her  home.  When  learning  that 
she  was  alone,  Martha  had  consented  to  remain  with 
her.  On  his  return,  he  missed  Belle  from  Hie  room 
where  he  left  her,  and  regretfully  went  for  the  night  to 
his  old  room,  as  Aunt  Mary  .had  directed,  full  of  the 
one  idea —  no,  not  one  idea,  that  is  a  mental  entity  — 
and  with  this  the  mind,  save  by  perception  and  con 
sciousness,  had  nothing  to  do.  He  was  full  of  the  image 


188  THE    PORTRAIT. 

of  Belle,  her  grace  and  beaut}',   and  for  an  hour  his 
own  atmosphere  had  been  cleared  of  the  old  shadow. 

lie  entered,  without  noticing,  the  old  and  once  fa 
miliar  room,  which  seemed  larger,  and  in  some  way 
strange.  Absently  he  removed  his  clothes  and  placed 
himself  in  bed  ;  but  when  he  passed  the  line  of  waking 
unconsciousness  to  the  realm  of  dreaming  reality,  lie  did 
not  know.  At  some  time,  however,  he  heard  the  low 
voice  of  Belle  coming  naturally  into  his  dream,  and,  for 
an  instant,  she  who  filled  his  sleeping  vision  filled  the 
place  by  his  side,  —  and  was  gone.  Had  she  actually 
been  there,  or  was  that  a  phase  of  his  dream?  lie 
full}'  awoke,  and  she  was  gone,  and  there  came  to  his 
awakened  sense  the  idea  of  having  committed  a  crime 
against  her  purity.  True,  he  was  in  dreamland,  and 
as  innocent  in  thought  as  act ;  but  he  wondered  why 
her  approach  had  not  awakened  him,  —  he  thought  he 
would  know  if  she  approached  his  grave ;  and  the 
shock,  the  offence  to  her  would  undoubtedly  be  as 
great  as  if  he,  knowing  of  her  mistake,  had  permitted 
her  to  complete  it.  He  was  in  no  condition  to  reason 
or  think  at  all.  He  had  long  realized  that  the  love  of 
woman  was  not  for  him  ;  that  a  name  tarnished  by  such 
a  birth,  and  in  a  way  infamous,  he  could  never  offer  to 
any  woman.  Here  now  was  this  one  woman  of  all  the 
earth  and  heaven  whom  he  should  love,  whom  he  felt  and 
knew  that  he  now  loved  ;  against  her  he  had  so  sinned, 
and  she  would  necessarily  regard  him  with  loathing  and 
abhorrence.  This  would  be  his  punishment.  So  in  u 
weak,  foolish,  young  man's  way,  it  haunted  him  tho 
long  night  through,  and  he  arose  languid.  How  could 
he  meet  her  again?  He  would  make  an  excuse  to  the 


BELLE  S    REVERT.  189 

Carmans  and  go  away  —  if  indeed  Belle  had  not  already 
left  the  house  —  and  take  himself  out  of  her  sight ! 

He  found  Belle  standing  by  the  window  from  which 
she  first  saw  him  the  day  before,  and  as  she  turned,  her 
look  betrayed  to  him  something  that  he  translated  into 
suffering,  —  possibly  dislike  or  loathing.  She  was  alone. 

"  Mrs.  Williams,"  with  humiliation  and  contrition, 
"  I  know  not  how  I  can  approach  3'ou,  or  how  frame 
a  possible  apology.  I  dare  not  hope  for  pardon. 
I  was  dreaming  of  you  when  you  approached ;  I 
heard  your  voice  ;  I  should  have  spoken,  and  saved 
you  ;  I  could  not ;  I  wish  3-011  could  know  how  impos 
sible  it  is  for  me  to  harm  woman  ;  "  a  pause  —  she  had 
turned  away  —  no  answer.  "  I  will  go  away  at  once, 
and  relieve  you  of  my  presence." 

A  little  hand  came  out  to  him  deprecatingly.  "  No, 
Mr.  Warden,  you  will  not  go;  3-011  will  sta3',  we  — 
shall " —  a  little  motion  of  the  hand  finished  the  sen 
tence. 

"  Oh,  that  this  should  have  happened  !  I,  who  have 
never  hoped  for  the  love  of  woman,  and  yet  would 
gladh'  die  for  3'ou." 

No  answer,  save  a  little  wave  of  the  hand  again. 
Fred  stood  a  moment ;  he  could  say  no  more,  and  Belle 
would  say  nothing.  lie  could  make  no  apology,  and 
none  could  be  accepted.  He  could  only  relapse  into 
the  abashed  awkwardness  of  the  clownish  feeling  of  a 
man  who  blunders  into  a  position  to  which  no  human 
tact  is  equal.  Had  lie  possessed  the  finer  nature  of 
the  woman,  he  would  have  felt  instinctively  that  it 
was  not  a  matter  for  words,  unless,  indeed,  at  some 
blissful  future,  when  everything  might  find  words  for 


190  THE    PORTRAIT. 

expression.  lie  saw  in  a  moment  that  he  had  help 
lessly  blundered,  yet  lie  felt  that  a  woman  should  have 
sympathized  with  a  manly  effort  to  apologize  ;  and  as 
the  only  thing  left  he  escaped  from  the  room,  out 
through  the  dining-room,  and  so  past  the  kitchen,  into 
the  back  yard,  off  across  the  orchard,  and  down  by  the 
cider  mill,  across  the  road  into  the  meadow  below,  to 
where  a  young  man  was  feeding  a  herd  of  young  bullocks 
and  heifers  from  a  haj'-stack.  lie  thought  it  all  over, 
and  it  did  not  look  to  him,  on  this  bleak  wintiy  morn 
ing,  as  amid  the  dreams  of  last  night.  It  was  all  like 
a  dream  now,  and  at  no  time  while  Belle  was  in  his 
room,  was  he  well  awake.  He  knew  he  was  uncon 
scious  of  the  thought  of  ill,  and  should  she  be  so  re 
lentless?  After  all,  the  shock  to  her  might  be  as  great 
as  if,  with  a  full  knowledge  on  his  part,  he  had  permitted 
her  to  commit  the  error.  No  matter,  there  came  up  a 
sensation  of  anger  to  mingle  with  the  sore  feeling  that 
possessed  him.  What  mattered  it?  She  could  never 
be  au3'thing  to  him,  and  he  less  than  nothing  to  her ; 
if  she  did  scorn  and  despise  him,  it  was  but  natural. 
She  could  not  be  above  the  rest  of  the  world.  What 

was  he,  but  a .     It  was  not  a  pleasant  frame  of  mind 

in  which  he  turned  back  to  his  kind  hosts  and  their 
guests,  but  it  would  carry  him  through  under  the  eyes 
of  Belle,  or  in  her  presence  ;  she  would  not  look  at  him, 
anywa}',  and  he  would  not  care. 

And  Belle?  She  remained  by  the  window,  only 
turning  when  she  heard  the  door  close  at  his  exit. 
Her  face  wore  a  thoughtful,  but  anything  in  the  world 
but  an  angry  or  disgusted  look.  Under  other  circum 
stances  one  wouM  suppose  that  something  deep,  but 


BELLE'S  REVERT.  191 

not  at  all  unpleasant,  was  in  her  mind  ;  and  withal 
there  was  a  little  look  of  distrust  about  her.  She 
turned  again  to  the  window,  wondering,  perhaps, 
whether  that  portrait  would  come  again  through  the 
arbor,  and  started  to  see  Martha  flash  in  it  a  moment. 
This  sight  sent  her  to  the  glass,  to  sec  what  her  face 
might  tell,  but  she  was  evidently  satisfied  with  it,  as 
well  she  might  be,  and  the  next  moment  turned  to 
scold  the  truant.  "  Well,  upon  my  word,  if — 

"  Don't  scold  me,  Belle  ;  I  expected  to  return  ;  I 
sent  back  Master  Fred  ;  of  course  I  knew  I  wouldn't 
be  missed." 

"  Indeed !  Miss  Martha,  take  a  timely  warning  if 
you  wish  us  to  cultivate  each  other.  Don't  you  know 
that  if  parties  get  the  impression  that  friends  wish 
them  to  fancy  each  other,  and  make  little  conveniences 
for  them,  that  they  take  pleasure  in  asserting  their 
independence?  and  your  friend  Fred  would  be  no  ex 
ception." 

"  You  wise  Belle  !  I  never  thought  of  that.  Where 
is  that  young  gentleman,  pray?" 

"How  should  I  know?  He  idled  through  the  room 
but  a  moment  ago,  finding  it  more  attractive  elsewhere, 
of  course." 

The  quick  Martha  looked  keenly  at  her.  "  What  has 
happened,  3-011  cool,  indifferent  thing?" 

"You  went  and  left  me  alone,  and  without  notice; 
is  not  that  excuse  for  coolness?" 

"Answer  me  one  thing, —  don't  you  think  he  is 
handsome  ?  " 

"  He  is  better  looking  than  handsome,"  very  seri- 


192  THE    PORTRAIT. 

ously.  "  Don't  call  him  handsome, —  anybody  might  be 
that." 

"Well,  what?" 

"  Noble,  and  true,  and  good ;  any  woman  would 
trust  him  in  a  moment,"  seriously. 

"  Oh,  Belle,  Belle,  and  you  a  married  woman  !  Look 
out !  " 

"I  think  that  it  is  when  a  woman  sees  all  these 
qualities,  and  keeps  them  for  her  own  secret  admiration, 
that  she  is  in  danger,"  answered  the  cool  and  wary 
Belle. 

"  And  you're  deep,  after  all,  with  your  great  wide 
eyes  staring  about  in  wondering  innocence.  Never 
mind  "  —  as  she  passed  forward  to  aid  about  the  break 
fast. 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

A    WEIRD    HUNT. 

TT^RED  came  in  rather  late  to  breakfast,  and  was 
-J-  remitted  to  his  place  between  the  young  ladies, 
receiving  from  Martha  a  quick,  sharp  glance,  and 
reproof  for  his  tardiness,  and  an  answer  to  his  excuse 
that  "Pete  would  attend  to  the  young  cattle."  Father 
Henry  turned  his  shaggy  brows  not  unkindly  upon  him, 
and  pleasantly  referred  to  the  discussion  of  the  night 
before,  remarking  that  brother  Morse  thought  that 
lawyers  were,  on  the  whole,  a  sort  of  worldly  philos 
ophers,  not  without  their  use,  though  not  very  well 
appreciated. 

Fred  answered  :  "  That  a  man  with  danger  on  either 
hand,  as  you  see  me  "  —  with  a  glance  at  either  fair 
neighbor  —  "has  need  of  philosopli}^ ;  what  can  the 
church  do  in  situations  like  these?  " 

"  The  church  can  furnish  the  exact  remedy,"  sparkled 
up  the  piquant  Martha,  with  a  mischievous  glance 
at  Belle. 

"  You  are  to  try  your  own  prescriptions,  I  believe, 
which  proves  your  sincerity,  at  least,  Miss  Carman," 
said  that  perfectly  placid  person,  with  a  little  emphasis 
on  the  first  word. 

13  (193) 


194  THE    PORTRAIT. 

Some  general  talk  of  the  weather,  and  of  the  departure 
of  the  guests,  between  the  elders,  with  silence  among 
the  3*ounger  ones,  till  the  meal  was  finished ;  then 
a  chapter  in  Mr.  Campbell's  translation  of  the  later 
Scriptures,  a  hymn  which  Fred  helped  the  young  ladies 
to  sing,  a  sonorous  prayer  by  Elder  Henry,  who  pointedly 
reminded  the  Lord  of  the  existence  and  outside  con 
dition  of  Fred,  and  recommended  prompt  measures  in 
his  case.  Then  the  preachers  went  their  wa}',  attended 
by  Uncle  Seth,  with  the  understanding  that  they  would 
return  the  second  evening  after. 

Somehow,  it  was  a  dull  day  at  the  farm-house.  Belle 
was  silent  and  thoughtful,  and  went  to  her  room 
to  write  letters,  and  was  by  herself  most  of  the  day. 
Martha,  with  her  vivacious  nature  and  sweet  thoughts, 
relapsed  into  her  little  demure  ways,  and  Aunt  Mary 
was  uneasy  about  the  n^-sterious  absence  of  Fred,  who 
-had  disappeared. 

In  the  afternoon,  Pete  relieved  this  anxietjT,  by  saying 
that  Fred  had  passed  \)y  where  he  was  chopping  in  the 
east  woods,  with  Hiram  Spencer's  rifle,  making  over  the 
chestnut  ridges  towards  the  mouth  of  Black  Brook,  he 
presumed  for  turkeys.  It  was  quite  late,  however, 
when  he  returned  ;  and  the  three  women  in  the  fire-lighted 
room  were  waiting  in  the  weird  loneliness  that  may 
come  about  women  at  this  hour,  in  the  absence  of  the 
masculine  clement,  that  at  least  sheds- about  a  lonely 
farm-house,  at  the  oncoming  of  night,  a  sense  of  pro 
tection  and  safety.  Three  rather  sombre  faces  broke 
into  warmth  and  gladness  when  he  came  in. 

"  How  now,  you  runaway  !  "  exclaimed  the  vivacious 
Martha,  springing  to  him;  "don't  3*011  know  you'\e 


A   WEIRD    HUNT.  195 

behaved  very  badly,  running  off  to  the  woods,  and  leav 
ing  us  alone  all  day  ?  " 

"  Excuse  me,  but  really,  when  your  good  mother 
consented  to  harbor  me  for  a  clay  or  two,  it  was  on  the 
express  condition  that  I  would  not  annoy  the  young 
ladies,  you  remember." 

"  I  don't  know  any  such  thing ;  and  besides,  you 
should  wait  till  we  showed  our  annoyance." 

"A  gentleman  would  prevent  the  possibility  of  your 
being  anno}'cd." 

"  Well,  we  are  annoyed,  you  sec." 

"  I  can  only  implore  your  pardon,"  meekl}'. 

"  We  won't  forgive  you  now,  —  I  hope  you  haven't 
killed  anything,  you  unlucky  wretch,  running  off  to 
murder  things  !  " 

"  Only  a  very  dark  day,  and  a  very  black  turkey, 
notwithstanding  the  maxim  that  assigns  luck  to  fools." 

Supper  was  announced,  at  which  Martha  asked  an 
account  of  the  day's  adventures,  and  how  he  came  to 
act  so. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Spencer  had  told  him  of  a  flock  of  tur 
keys,  over  by  the  Dean  Place,  and  offered  him  his  rifle, 
and  he  thought  Mrs.  Carman  would  like  a  bird  for  her 
table,  on  the  return  of  her  guests.  So  he  went  out, 
and  had  struck  the  fresh  track  of  deer,  and  was  enticed 
to  follow  it." 

"  Just  like  a  man  !  "  put  in  Martha. 

"  Well,  he  came  upon  the  deer,  and  his  gun  snapped." 

"  Served  you  right ;  and  the  deer  snapped  her  lingers 
at  you,  I  s'pose." 

"  Exactly  !  Well,  he  saw  it  several  times  ;  it  had  a 
funny  way  of  disappearing,  and  then  suddenly  being 


196  THE    PORTRAIT. 

before  him,  like  the  white  witch  doe,  that  nothing  was 
to  kill,  and  finally  away  across  Black  Brook,  he  found 
himself  lost." 

"•  The  Irishman  found  himself  lost ! "  exclaimed 
Martha.  "  Well,  sir,  when  did  you  lose  }*ourself  found 
again?  " 

"  Not  till  now.  Well,  having  got  me  hopelessly 
snarled  up,  the  deer  disappeared." 

"Appeared  to  disappear,  perhaps,"  suggested  Mar 
tha.  "  and  served  you  right  for  disappearing  yourself. 
Let  this  be  a  warning." 

"  Well,  I  didn't  look  for  her,  him  or  it,  but  thought 
of  Hiram's  turkeys,  and  found  myself  so  bewildered 
that  I  really  thought  of  nothing.  Finally,  I  found 
myself  somehow  in  the  midst  of  a  flock,  and  shot  a  fine, 
large,  and  glossy  black  young  torn,  when  —  " 

"  You  piously  thanked  your  stars,  and  gratefull}7- 
started  for  home." 

"  I  started,  but  for  no  definite  where,  as  I  found. 
I  finally  grew  weary  of  carrying  the  young  torn,  threw 
him  down,  consulted  the  moss  on  the  trees,  and  made 
a  very  direct  course  for  home." 

"  Of  course,  —  well  ?  " 

•'  After  a  half-hour's  walk  I  came  upon  a  fine,  black, 
young  torn  turkey,  that  somebody  had  just  shot,  which 
looked  somehow  familiar  ;  and  sure  enough,  close  by, 
was  a  track  which  my  boot  just  fitted." 

Laughter  from  the  ladies. 

"  I  resumed  the  turkey,  and  my  journe}-.  That  par 
ticular  torn  had  the  peculiarity  of  rapidly  growing 
heavy,  and  I  soon  abandoned  him,  notwithstanding 
Mrs.  Carman's  possible  wishes." 


A    WEIRD    HUNT.  197 

"Well?—" 

"Well,  I  came  upon  another  freshly  shot  .young 
torn  turkey,  in  a  few  minutes,  and,  as  he  was  rather 
fresh  and  fine,  and  thinking  Mrs.  Carman  might  find 
him  acceptable,  and  as  he  was  thus  providentially 
thrown  in  my  way,  I  thought  I  would  carry  him  to  her. 
After  a  little  tramp,  I  changed  my  mind,  remembering 
that  she  had  turkey  last  night ;  so  I  dropped  him  also, 
but  somehow  he  wouldn't  stay  dropped,  for  within  ten 
minutes  I  came  upon  him  again.  You  see,  ladies,  go 
where  I  would,  do  what  I  would,  that  particular  and 
very  unlucky  3"oung  torn  haunted  me.  This  time  I 
took  a  very  deliberate  survey  of  him,  and  of  myself, 
mentally,  and  of  my  whole  life." 

"  What  an  ugby  view  you  must  have  had  !  " 

"  I  did,  —  I  assure  you." 

"  Well,  what  was  your  conclusion  ?  " 

"  To  adhere  to  that  torn,  and  change  my  course  of 
travel,  and  possibly  of  life." 

"  That  was  profound,  though  late.     Well  ?  " 

"  It  was  not  well.  I  soon  found  myself  in  the 
trail  leading  up  through  to  Troy  —  I  believe  AVelch- 
field  is  now  called  —  and  of  course  thought  that  my 
resolution  had  met  with  an  immediate  blessing.  I  had 
gone  perhaps  a  mile,  when  just  at  that  moment  the 
clouds  lifted  at  the  horizon,  and  the  sun  shone  out 
exactly  in  the  east !  It  was  apparent  that  the  world  or 
I  was  very  much  turned  around  ;  and  as  it  was  easier 
to  reverse  myself,  I  turned  immediately  the  other  way, 
and  am  here,  ladies,"  with  a  bow  to  each.  The  man 
ner  was  very  vivacious,  with  a  little  flavor  of  irony. 

"  And  the  turkey  ?  "  gravely  asked  Martha. 


198  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"  Is  on  the  poi-ch,  or  was.  I  won't  answer  for  that 
young  torn,  however." 

"  Susan  !  "  to  the  girl,  "  take  a  candle  and  go  and 
see  ;  this  tale  needs  confirmation."  Sue  soon  returned, 
bringing  in  an  immense  and  gloss}7  black  turkey,  so 
black  that  it  seemed  to  shed  twilight  through  the 
room. 

"  Wiry,  what  an  unearthly,  weird  monster  it  is ! 
Take  it  out,"  with  affected  fright. 

"  Fred,"  resumed  the  j'oung  lady,  with  immense 
solemnity,  "  let  this  day's  wanderings  and  misadven 
tures,  with  its  warnings  and  sufferings,  remain  an 
awful  lesson  to  you,  so  long  as  you  live  —  and  remain 
young,  and  unmarried  —  never  again  to  desert  two 
distressed  damsels,  one  of  whom  is  a  widow,  and  the 
other  has  not  a  lover  within  five  hundred  miles  ;  and 
that  the  lesson  may  not  be  without  improvement  by  us 
all,  Susan  shall  dress  the  young  thomas,  and  maybe 
he  will  inveigle  two  hungry  preachers,  and  the  rest  of 
us,  with  other  woes.  It  is  our  duty  to  submit  to  these 
trials  of  the  flesh,  —  when  it  promises  to  be  savor}-." 

During  the  delivery  of  this  unctuous  exhortation, 
Fred  had  drawn  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  arid 
dropped  his  ej'es,  with  ludicrous  contrition,  and  ex 
pressed  his  acquiescence  in  a  sepulchral  "Amen"  at 
its  conclusion. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE    EXCURSION    AND    RESCUE. 

I  j^ RE  they  left  the  table,  Martha  informed  him  that 
-»— ^  the  State-road  young  people,  the  Reeds,  one  or 
two  of  the  Mays,  and  others,  had  sent  over,  and  asked 
them  to  go  the  next  morning,  with  a  little  p.arty,  to 
the  Rapids.  The  ice  above  was  splendid,  and  they 
would  skate  and  drive  on  the  river,  have  a  dinner  at  old 
Fnrman's,  and  a  good  time,  and  would  he  go?  Belle 
had  consented. 

Of  course  he  would,  and  gladly.  lie  had  an  im 
mense  relish  for  outdoor  sports,  in  which  he  excelled. 
It  would  furnish  him  emplo}  mcnt,  and  be  an  excuse  for 
remaining  near  Belle,  who  had  been  almost  bodily 
with  him  all  day,  notwithstanding  her  contemptuous 
rebuff  that  morning,  and  her  silence  this  evening. 

The  rest  of  the  evening  was  spent  in  the  front  sit 
ting-room.  Fred  distrait  and  silent,  notwithstanding 
his  evident  effort  at  careless  gayet}r,  in  which  he  sig 
nally  failed.  The  charitable  Martha  attributed  his 
manner  to  over-fatigue,  incident  to  the  forest  enchant 
ment  of  the  bewitched  doc.  Aunt  Mary  kindly  insisted 
on  his  early  retirement,  while  Belle  seemed  somewhat 
lost  in  a  revery.  Martha  fell  back  upon  her  own  cx- 
haustless,  happy  thoughts.  Fred  was  up  early.  He 
(199) 


200  THE    PORTRAIT. 

found  Elias's  skates,  and  restrapped  them.  Uncle 
Seth  had  driven  off  the  cutter,  an  old  one  was  hunted 
out,  a  pole  extemporized,  a  seat  fixed  up,  and  a  harness 
and  pair  of  horses  adjusted  to  it.  One  of  the  horses 
was  young,  unaccustomed  to  work,  and  quite  unman 
ageable  ;  Belle,  from  her  window,  admiringly  watched 
the  skill  and  address  with  which  Fred  controlled  and 
finally  subdued  the  spirited  animal.  The  morning  was 
brilliant,  with  sun,  snow  and  frost ;  about  mid-fore 
noon  the  State-road  part}*  arrived,  and  Fred  had  his 
horses  ready  to  start  with  them. 

When  they  were  about  to  go,  Belle,  under  pretence 
that  his  sleigh  was  scant  of  room,  having  but  a  single 
scat,  accepted  a  place  in  another.  The  excuse  was 
sufficient,  perhaps,  but  the  sharp-eyed  Martha  saw  that 
the  act  cut  Fred  like  a  knife.  No  remark  was  made 
about  it  between  them,  and  the  party  proceeded  south, 
towards  Judge  Carman's,  and  took  the  old  diagonal  road 
that  led  down  past  the  old  Elam  Spencer  place,  and 
thence  east  into  the  road  up  the  hill,  and  across  the  in 
tervening  table-land,  past  the  Norton  place,  and  so 
finally  down  the  slope  into  the  valley  of  the  Cuyahoga, 
to  Furman's,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  river.  The 
whole  way  was  still  an  almost  unbroken  forest,  and 
one  of  the  most  wonderful  growths  of  splendid  chest 
nut-trees  on  the  continent. 

After  a  little  pause  at  Furman's,  the  party  pulled 
up  on  the  still  solitary  banks  of  the  river,  just  at  the 
upper  end  of  "  the  Rapids,"  where  the  waters,  breaking 
through  the  sandstone  ridge  that  here,  cropping  out, 
had  imprisoned  them,  and  caused  them  to  stand  and 
flood  back,  deep  and  still,  for  miles,  and  finally  go 


THE    EXCURSION    AND    RESCUE.  201 

madly  plunging  and  foaming  through  and  over  the 
broken,  worn,  and  torn  fragments  of  rock  below,  —  now 
an  impassable,  dangerous,  wintry  torrent  of  consider 
able  width  and  depth.  Immediately  above,  the  ice  was 
smooth  and  firm,  and  for  any  extent  upward.  Sam 
Furman  had  a  cooper's  shop  near  the  bank,  which  the 
party  took  possession  of,  and  which  was  warm  with  a 
roaring  fire. 

The  sleighs  and  cutters  were  driven  at  will  on  to  the 
firm  surface  ;  skates  were  adjusted,  and  very  soon  the 
young  men  were  flying  over  the  ice,  and  sometimes 
pushing  the  young  ladies  in  chairs,  or  some  other  ex 
temporized  means  of  conveyance,  before  them.  At  that 
time  young  ladies  seldom  skated. 

One  of  the  3'oung  men,  who  drove  a  single  horse, 
and  had  two  young  girls  in  his  sleigh,  amused  himself 
and  them  by  driving  up  and  down  on  the  river.  At 
one  time  he  incautiously  approached  too  near  the 
margin  of  the  ice,  where  the  boiling  water  broke  from 
it  in  its  swelling  plunge  down  the  Rapids ;  he 
headed  his  horse  about  in  time  to  save  him,  but  the 
momentum  carried  that  sleigh  over  the  smooth  ice,  so 
near  to  its  edge,  that  it  broke  with  the  weight ;  and 
although  the  spirited  horse,  at  the  call  of  its  excited 
driver,  took  the  carriage  away  in  safety,  one  of  the 
girls,  a  little  Hebe  of  fourteen,  in  her  fright,  finding 
herself  sweeping  in  a  giddy  circle  out  over"  the  water, 
sprang  from  the  sleigh  into  the  current.  Her  clothes 
buoyed  her  for  a  moment,  and  the  rushing  torrent  car 
ried  her  below.  Her  red  hood  floated  at  the  surface 
an  instant,  and  disappeared. 

The  accident  was  witnessed  by  many  of  the  party, 


202  THE    PORTRAIT. 

who,  at  the  apparent  danger,  raised  a  cry  of  alarm, 
when,  under  an  apprehension  that  the  ice  had  given 
way  generally,  everybody  in  terror  sprang  toward  the 
shore.  Fred  was  a  few  roods  away,  pushing  the 
laughing  Martha  before  him  in  a  chair.  He  had  dis 
covered  the  approach  of  the  sleigh,  raised  his  voice  in 
warning  to  the  driver,  abandoning  Martha,  and  was 
already  in  full  career  for  the  scene  of  peril.  With  an 
almost  perfect  form  for  strength  and  activity,  strong 
and  agile,  he  sprang  forward.  Dropping  his  gloves 
and  cap,  and  flinging  his  coat  from  him,  he  leaped  into 
the  open  water  and  disappeared.  A  moment,  and  the 
red  hood  reappeared,  and  then  the  upper  part  of  Fred's 
person,  sustaining  the  insensible  girl.  So  far  down 
now  were  they,  that  the  current,  in  its  first  leap,  dashed 
him  downward  —  a  rock  projecting  stayed  him  —  when, 
with  a  prodigious  effort,  he  reached  the  flat  surface  of 
another,  over  which  the  waters  ran  smooth,  but  with 
almost  irresistible  force.  Unable  to  stand  with  skates, 
he  sprang  forward,  stemmed  successfully  a  deeper  cur 
rent,  and  under  his  burden  reached  the  margin,  in 
which,  standing  to  her  knees  in  swift  waters,  stood 
Belle,  with  her  arms  mutely  extended  to  him,  and  a 
light  in  her  great  eyes  such  as  he  had  never  seen  be 
fore.  From  this  point  she  aided  him ;  a  sleigh  was 
standing  near  ;  pushing  the  loose  seats  aside,  they  laid 
the  girl  on  the  straw  in  the  bottom.  "  Take  her  on 
j'our  lap,"  said  Fred,  in  a  low  voice;  "so,  —  now  roll 
her  to  and  fro."  Seizing  the  lines,  he  headed  the 
horses  towards  Furman's,  and  lashed  them  to  their  ut 
most  speed.  "Tear  open  her  dress,  if  possible,"  were 
the  only  other  words  he  said. 


THE    EXCURSION    AND    RESCUE.  203 

Ere  they  reached  the  house,  the  nearly  drowned  girl 
showed  signs  of  returning  consciousness  ;  and  when  Fred 
took  her  in,  she  was  struggling  and  breathing,  though 
with  difficulty.  "  Strip  and  wrap  her  in  hot  flannels  at 
once,"  he  said  to  Belle,  to  whom  he  resigned  her  ; 
"  and  care  for  yourself,  —  3-011  are  drenched." 

lie  removed  his  skates,  one  of  which  was  broken  at 
the  toe,  and  ran  back  to  the  river,  meeting  on  his  way 
the  whole  terror-stricken  party.  His  cap,  coat  and 
gloves  were  restored  to  him  ;  and  directing  one  of  the 
young  men  to  go  for  the  nearest  doctor,  he  entered  the 
now  deserted  shop. 

An  hour  later,  limp  and  stained  about  the  bosom, 
with  his  hair  still  damp,  he  entered  the  Furman  house 
to  learn  that  the  rescued  girl  was  doing  very  well. 
There  the  whole  party  were,  and  now  gathered  about 
tiim  in  eager  and  rapturous  applause.  Oh,  it  is  much 
to  be  the  hero  of  even  a  moment,  and  feel  the -strong 
rush  and  gush  of  human  praise  and  admiration  ;  and  so 
did  it  overwhelm  poor  Fred,  that  he  could  make  no  re 
ply  ;  a  choking  sensation  arose  in  his  throat,  tears 
came  to  his  e}*es,  and  a  devout  thankfulness  went  up 
from  his  burdened  heart ;  and  all  the  time  he  could 
feel  a  pair  of  great  wondrous  eyes  upon  him,  that  he 
would  not  turn  to  meet. 

"  Miss  Carman,"  said  he,  finally  addressing  that  now- 
radiant  young  woman,  "  I  owe  you  an  apology.  Pcr- 
i:i it  me  to  beg  your  pardon  for  the  very  unceremonious 
Manner,  in  which  I  left  you  on  the  ice  a  few  moments 
ago." 

"  I  will  not  only  forgive  you  for  that,  but  for  all  past 
and  all  possible  future  transgressions.  How  glad  you 


204  THE    PORTRAIT. 

should  be  that  you  are  a  great,  brave,  heroic  man  !  "  ad 
miringly. 

"And  Mrs.  Williams"  —  he  had  now  found  his 
tongue,  turning,  but  still  avoiding  her  eyes  —  "  I  owe 
you  a  thousand  thanks  for  coming  to  help  me  out  of 
the  river  ;  and  the  poor  girl  is  indebted  to  you  for  your 
care  in  the  sleigh." 

u  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  !  "  said  the  sincere  girl,  u  gladder 
than  I  can  say." 

Then  all  resumed  their  interrupted  versions  of  the 
matter,  and  each  of  the  3*oung  men  explained  very 
clearly  why  it  was  that  he  did  not  also  plunge  into  the 
mad  and  boiling  waters,  and  cany  out  the  drowning 
girl. 

"  Oh,  boys  !  "  exclaimed  the  appreciative  Martha,  "  it 
is  all  perfectly  clear, —  you  all  cleared  out.  In  a  mo 
ment  you  rendered  it  the  clearest  case  that  ever  was 
clarified, —  no  use  to  protest,  Dave  :  I  saw  you  climb 
ing  a  tree^ —  you  thought  that  there  was  a  miraculous 
rise  in  the  river.  Well,  we  weren't  all  born  to  be  heroes. 
You  all  wish  that  you  had  done  it,  and  we  are  all  too  glad 
that  it  was  clone,  and  well  done,  because  it  was  done 
quickly.  Fred,  ain't  that  a  little  Shakespearish,  or 
something." 

"  That,  or  something,  certainly,"  laughing.  Then 
the  young  lady  wanted  to  see  her  deliverer  ;  and  Mrs. 
Furman,  with  Belle  and  Martha,  took  him  into  a  large 
warm  room,  where,  in  a  bed,  propped  up  with  warm 
woollens  about  her,  a  sweet  bright  face,  and  mischiev 
ous  black  eyes,  were  anxiously  awaiting  him.  Her 
face  was  warm  with  color  ;  and  poor  Fred  approached 
her  blushing,  the  only  embarrassed  one  in  the  room. 


THE    EXCURSION*    AND    RESCUE.  205 

The  attendants  made  way,  and  putting  up  towards 
him  her  honest  brown  hands,  she  said,  "I  want  to 
thank  you  and  can't  ;  "  and  pulling  the  poor  youth  down 
to  her,  she  kissed  his  cheek.  "  God  bless  you,  God  bless 
3'oji,  and  of  course  lie  will !  " 

When  they  had  a  little  recovered  from  this  natural 
exuberance  of  feeling,  "There,"  said  Martha,  "that 
must  do  !  You  are  a  precious  little  puss,  Millie,  for 
jumping  into  the  river.  There  ain't  another  girl  in  the 
world  who  would  have  done  it,  and  we  are  ever  and 
ever  so  much  obliged  to  you  for  it,  and  so  is  Fred ; 
for  how  could  lie  save  you  if  you  hadn't?  But,  you 
see,  3'ou  mustn't  go  to  falling  hi  love  with  him  and 
being  unhappy.  Of  course,  it  would  be  your  duty  to 
marry  him.  .but  3-011  won't  have  to,  for  I've  promised 
him  in  another  direction  ;  so  you'll  have  nothing  to  do 
but  remember  him  in  your  prayers,  you  precious  little 
goose  you  !  "  Then  Fred  was  permitted  to  go  out  with 
out  a  word.  Indeed,  the  case  was  a  little  too  trying 
for  him,  lawj-cr  as  he  was. 

After  dinner  the  teams  were  brought  around,  and,  of 
course,  the  party  went  home,  the  young  girl  remaining 
till  a  later  hour,  for  more  complete  restoration. 

Fred  was  desirous  of  going  to  Turner's,  where  his 
baggage  was,  and  turned  down  a  new  road,  which 
followed  the  river  valley,  accompanied  by  Martha. 
The  strain  of  the  last  two  or  three  days  had  been 
severe  upon  him  mentally  and  physically  ;  and  if  Martha, 
found  him  a  less  pleasant  companion  than  he  otherwise 
might  have  been,  w  it'll  a  woman's  tact  she  accommo 
dated  herself  to  his  man's  moods  uncomplainingly.  As 
they  approached  the  neighborhood  of  Fred's  young  boy- 


206  THE    PORTRAIT. 

home,  he  became  alive  to  the  surroundings,  and  pointed 
out  to  the  sympathizing  Martha  various  localities ; 
among  others,  to  a  little  heap  of  stones  and  one  or  two 
apple-trees  in  a  deserted  space,  which  marked  the  site  of 
Sam  Warden's  hut.  Further  on,  he  pointed  to  a  little 
knoll  in  the  now  thin  fringe  of  forest  that  bordered  the 
river  where  he  stood  when  his  little  boat  passed  for 
ever  from  his  sight.  Never  before  had  he  said  so  much 
of  his  old-time  life,  and  he  now  suddenly  relapsed  into 
his  wonted  reticence,  saying  little  more  upon  an}*  sub 
ject,  and  left  his  companion  to  wonder  over  the  light 
that  his  words  let  in,  not  so  much  upon  his  history,  as 
on  his  inside  life  and  experience. 

They  remained  long  enough  at  Turner's  to  permit 
Fred  to  make  the  needed  change  in  his  dress,  called 
at  the  post-office,  and  returned  home  by  Uncle  Bill 
Skinner's,  where  they  made  a  brief  pause.  When  they 
got  home  it  was  already  twilight ;  and  when  Fred 
returned  from  the  barn  where  he  drove  his  team,  he 
thought,  at  first,  that  the  sitting-room  was  deserted.  A 
moment  later,  Belle  stepped  out  from  the  shadow,  and 
came  forward,  holding  out  her  hand. 

Fred  grasped  it  with  both  his  own,  pressed  it  for  a 
second  to  his  face,  and  abandoning  it,  wet  with  his  tears, 
hurried  from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

FATHER  HENRY  QUOTES  PAUL  TO  BELLE. 

ON  their  way  home,  Mr.  Carman  and  his  guests 
heard  very  exaggerated  rumors  of  the  incident  at 
the  Rapids.  They  reached  his  house  a  moment  after 
Fred,  much  excited,  and  entered  the  sitting-room 
just  as  he  returned  to  it.  As  he  came  in,  Mr.  Henry 
stepped  up  to  him  :  "  You  can  tell  us  all  about  this 
wonderful  deliverance,"  he  said,  in  a  way  which  was 
an  assertion,  a  request,  and  command  as  well. 

"  There  is  not  much  about  it,"  said  the  now  fully- 
recovered  3'outh.  "We  were  all  on  the  ice,  when 
that  little  wayward  Way  girl  jumped,  or  fell,  or  was 
spilled  into  the  water ;  and  as  she  did  not  get  out 
immediately,  a  fellow  skated  along  and  skimmed  her 
out,"  with  a  gesture  of  his  hand,  as  if  dipping  a 
butterfly  from  a  pool. 

"Skimmed  her  out,  did  he?"  asked  Father  Henry, 
very  incredulously." 

"  Father  Henry,"  said  Belle,  coming  forward  with 
a  beautiful  enthusiasm,  "the  3'oung  man  who  was 
driving  the  sleigh  in  which  the  young  girl  was, 
turned  suddenly  too  near  the  edge  of  the  ice,  just 
where  the  water,  deep  and  black,  begins  to  move, 
and  that  sent  the  sleigh  around  in  a  circle,  when 
(207) 


208  THE    PORTRAIT. 

'this  little  Millie,  in  her  fright,  attempted  to  jump  out 
on  to  the  ice  ;  but  when  she  sprang,  the  sleigh  had 
moved  so  far  that  she  jumped  into  the  water.  She 
gave  a  shriek  as  she  went  in,  and  everybody  was 
frightened,  and  hurried  off  the  ice.  She  floated  a 
moment,  and  went  down ;  just  at  that  instant  Mr. 
Warden  came  flashing  over  the  ice,  throwing  away  his 
gloves  and  cap  and  coat  as  he  came  ;  at  the  edge  of 
the  ice  he  sprang  into  the  air,  and  I  thought  he  would 
leap  to  the  shore.  He  struck  the  water  just  Avherc  the 
girl  disappeared  —  the  world  whirled  a  moment  —  and 
then  I  saw  the  red  bonnet,  then  Mr.  Warden  with 
Millie  ;  then  the  current  dashed  him  down  to  a  large 
rock  ;  from  that  he  seemed  to  spring  to  a  shallow  place, 
where  he  plunged  toward  the  shore  with  Millie  in  his 
arms.  It  was  a  brave,  noble,  heroic  act,  such  as  few 
men  in  the  world  could  perform,  and  such  as  the  world 
is  better  for  having  done  in  it.  I  saw  the  whole  of  it." 
Her  voice  trembled,  and  a  sweet  dewiness  came  into 
her  eyes  as  she  closed. 

"  And  so,  young  man,  your  statement  was  not  quite 
true  ?  "  with  affected,  but  very  kindly,  severity. 

"  Would  you  have  him  become  a  braggart?  "  asked 
Belle,  laj'ing  her  hand  on  the  old  man's  arm,  and  look 
ing  up  into  his  face. 

"•And  she  has  not  told  you,"  said  Fred,  in  a  soft 
voice,  "  that  when  I  was  almost  overcome,  and  strug 
gling  on  my  skates  against  a  sweeping  current,  she 
plunged  in  to  her  waist,  and  helped  us  out,  and  that  she 
brought  the  drowned  girl  to  herself." 

"  lie  told  me  what  to  do,"  said  the  generous  girl. 

The  old  man  looked  with  a  softened  surprise  from 


FATHER    HENEY    QUOTES    PAUL    TO    BELLE.  209 

one  to  the  other  of  the  noble  pair  standing  so  near  him, 
each  so  anxious  to  praise  the  other. 

"  Let  this  noble  act  be  a  bond  of  union  to  you." 
And  turning  to  Belle,—"  It  is  a  goodly  youth,  and  '  the 
unbelieving  husband  is  sanctified  by  the  wife ' ;  let  us 
return  thanks  for  this  great  deliverance  ;  "  which  he  did 
in  a  few  sonorous  words,  to  the  great  relief  of  the 
blushing  Belle.  As  for  poor  Fred,  broad  as  the 
allusion  was,  it  conveyed  no  meaning  to  his  dazed 
perception.  Supper  was  announced,  where  all  the 
details  of  the  interesting  incident  were  talked  over 
in  all  their  relations,  and  many  similar  incidents  called 
to  mind.  Father  Henry  was  interested  to  know  what 
were  the  mental  exercises  of  Fred  accompaning  his 
act. 

"  What  did  you  first  think  ?  " 

"  That  I  would  save  her." 

"Well,  what  next?" 

"  I  was  afraid  I  would  be  too  late." 

"Weren't  you  afraid  of  losing  your  own  life?  " 

"  I  never  thought  of  that,  I  thought  only  of  her." 

"  When  did  you  gain  sight  of  her  ?  " 

"  Just  as  I  leaped,  and  I  feared  I  might  strike  her ; 
she  was  partly  down  on  the  bottom.  The  water  was 
but  a  little  over  my  head,  but  it  had  an  awful  suck." 

"  Weren't  you  afraid  }'ou  would  not  get  her  out?  " 

"  I  knew  I  should  ;  I  pushed  out,  came  near  falling, 
caught  my  foot  in  some  rocks,  and  broke  the  skate  iron 
that  turns  over  the  toe  ;  just  as  I  thought  I  would  fall, 
I  saw  Mrs.  Williams  within  two  yards  of  me,  and,  — 
of  course  I  got  out  then  easy  enough,"  with  a  soft  and 
14 


210  THE    PORTRAIT. 

falling  voice,  —  a  silence  with  expressive  looks  that 
Fred  did  not  see. 

*•  Didn't  you  nearly  freeze^" 

*•  I  never  seemed  to  know  I  was  wet  until  I  found  my 
clothes  frozen.  The  water  was  genuine  Cuyahoga.  I 
turned  two  quarts  out  of  each. boot  with  the  true  Black 
Brook  tint,  from  away  above  May's  mill-dam  ;  "  aiicl  so 
he  went  gayly  on  in  answer  to  questions. 

A  little  later,  Lewis  Turner  came  in,  as  he  said, 
to  carry  Fred  off.  He  had  not  seen  any  of  his  friends 
at  the  Corners  yet.  and  he  would  return  him  in  a  day 
or  two.  Before  Fred  left,  he  had  some  conversation 
with  Martha  about  a  visit  to  Sarah,  whom  Fred  had 
not  seen  for  years.  It  might  be  too  much  to  ask  her 
to  leave  Mrs.  Williams  to  go  with  him,  and  he  hardly 
had  the  courage  to  ask  her  to  go,  he  said,  with  a 
deprecating  look  at  that  conscious  young  woman. 

"•  I  will  be  very  glad  to  go,"  was  the  prompt 
response  to  the  look. 

So  it  was  arranged,  when,  with  kindest  adieus  from 
the  other  guests,  and  many  admonitions  from  Father 
Henry,  he  took  his  leave  of  the  rest,  and  went  out. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 


AN    IXTIiOSPECTIOX. 


long  after  midnight  Lad  Fred,  with  a  cease- 
^—  '  less  stride,  tramped  up  and  down  bis  room  at 
Turner's,  in  the  vain  effort  to  analyze  himself,  and  the 
emotions  and  vicissitudes  which  he  had  experienced 
within  three  day-?.  The  prominent  incidents  be  went 
over  and  over  with.  —  his  arrival  at  the  Caimans,  his 
meeting  with  Belle,  the  impression  she  made  upon  him, 
the  strange  incident  of  the  night,  his  attempted  expla 
nation  and  apology,  and  the  disgust  and  contempt  with 
which  she  extinguished  him.  —  his  wandering  in  the 
wood  the  next  day  —  her  Eeeking  a  seat  in  another  car 
riage,  with  strangers,  that  morning  —  the  exciting 
events  at  the  Bap  ids.  —  her  bold  plunge  into  the  river 
to  aid  him.  her  look,  her  joy  at  his  commendation,  — 
a!x»ve  all,  her  meeting  him  that  night,  and  her  glowing 
recital  of  his  conduct.  Then  he  recalled  his  own  emo 
tion,  when  he  took  her  hand  ;  his  intention  to  kiss  it, 
which  he  dared  not  do,  and  his  weak  breaking  down 
over  it.  What  did  that  matter?  She  must  have  seen, 
before  that,  exactly  what  were  his  feelings  toward  her. 
Over  and  over  with  it  all.  and  then  he  thought  back  of 
his  fruitless  quest,  —  a  hunt  at  the  South  for  the  place 
whence  he  supposed  the  Greens  came,  if  mayhap  he 


212  THE    PORTRAIT. 

might  lift  the  veil  from  liis  origin,  and  of  its  fruitless- 
ness.  Then  he  remembered  how  the  name  Jarvis  had 
escaped  Aunt  Sally,  and  other  remote  things,  and  then 
his  thoughts  came  back  to  Belle. 

Finally,  he  sat  down,  from  physical  weariness,  to 
endeavor  to  think,  to  strip  and  lay  himself  bare  to 
himself.  Who  and  what  was  he?  It  all  seemed  acci 
dental  and  purposeless,  tending  to  nothing.  lie  was, 
because  he  had  to  be,  and  not  because  airything  was  to 
come  of  it.  It  was  all  the  result  of  an  accident,  that 
should  not  have  happened,  an  oversight  of  Providence, 
and  hence  no  provision  was  made  for  it,  and  none  ever 
would  be.  He  was  to  go  on,  or  rather  other  things 
would  push  him  on.  He  was  mixed  in  with  others, 
who  were  going  on  that  way,  and  the  current  the}'  made 
took  him  along ;  that  was  all.  He  was  to  have  noth 
ing  on  the  route,  no  basket  had  been  filled  for  him,  and 
nothing  awaited  him  when  he  got  to  the  place  ;  indeed 
there  was  no  place  for  him.  When  the  rest  landed,  he 
and  the  stream  stood  still,  and  became  stagnant ;  he 
would  float  about  decaying  on  the  surface,  until  he 
acquired  the  power  to  sink,  and  would  finalhy  rot  on  the 
bottom  with  other  drift.  Why  should  he  have  this 
stain  ?  What  had  he  done  ?  Wh}-  should  children  ever 
inherit  disease,  and  depraved  appetites,  and  abnormal 
tendencies  from  their  parents?  It  wasn't  the  fault 
of  the  child,  and  yet  he  was  born  to  it  as  certainly  as  if 
the  transgression  was  his  personal  crime.  But  why 
were  people  made  so?  Why  were  they  made  at  all, 
for  that  matter?  He  had  inherited  a  disease  in  the 
form  of  an  infamy  ;  why  had  he  escaped  the  condition 
of  Jake  and  Sam?  Why  not  remain  low,  and  coaise, 


AN    INTROSPECTION.  213 

and  brutal,  and  so  remain  down,  where  the  mark  had 
not  struck  and  stung  him?  No  man  had  ever  got 
above  it.  The  proudest  in  history  alwa3's  carried  it. 

The  great  Bourbon,  was  a ,  to  the  end,  and  is  never 

named  now  without  this  reminder.  He  used  to  rage  at 
this,  and  wander  through  thick  dark  nights,  conjuring 
up  shadows  to  buffet,  and  had  at  times  grown  familiar 
with  the  thought  of  death.  Then  would  come  some 
shadow  of  a  thought  that  it  might  not  be,  after  all. 
What  comfort  was  there  in  that  possibility?  Nobody 
doubted  it,  and  never  would.  Now  he  had  met  this 
Belle.  He  had  seen  ladies  before  whom  he  could  have 
learned  to  love,  and  would  have  gladly  set  himself  the 
easy  task  had  he  felt  free.  Now  at  once,  without 
thought,  without  warning  or  note,  he  loved  her  deeply, 
intensely. —  pshaw  !  he  had  only  seen  her  two  days 
before. —  Out  of  poems,  was  there  ever  such  madness? 
Yes,  it  was  a  madness,  a  mere  rioting  of  the  fancy. 
Lord !  what  inspiration  came  to  him,  fainting  and 
staggering  in  the  icy  waters  from  her  eyes,  as  she 
stood  braced  against  the  current  to  help  him !  Oh, 
if  her  love  was  for  him, —  of  course  she  knew.  Why 
should  he  go  back  there  ?  Why  should  he  go  away  from 
her?  If  he  had  never  seen  her,  he  would  never  have 
known  what  a  wonder  of  loveliness  the  world  held.  He 
was  glad  he  had  seen  her.  Then  he  sat,  and  tried  not 
to  think.  He  was  done  fretting  at  or  with  the  world. 
He  was  in  it.  could  not  mend  it ;  indeed,  the  world  was 
seemingly  well  enough  to  others.  Belle?  of  course  he 
should  love  her.  Oh,  was  it  not  for  this,  he  would 
win  her.  He  would  compel  her  to  love  him.  She 
should  be  made  to  see  and  feel,  not  that  he  was  worthy 


214  THE    PORTRAIT. 

of  her  —  no  man  was  —  but  that  he  was  not  wholly  un- 
worth}*.  But  a bah! 

He  certainly  had  not  appeared  very  well  in  her  eyes, 
—  saving  his  experiment  in  hydraulics.  That  certainly 
wasn't  much  of  an  exploit.  Oh,  if  it  had  been  Belle, 
and  if  she  had  been  with  him  in  the  very  grasp  of 
death,  and  he  had  dragged  her  hence,  with  just  enough 
strength  to  lay  her/  on  the  shore,  saved,  and  had  then 
sunk  down  by  her  side  and  died, — what  a  joy  had 
been  his  !  But  this  little  girl  in  the  Rapids,  which  he 
had  waded  in  the  summer,  and  where  he  had  speared 
suckers,  —  faugh  !  somebody  would  laugh  at  the  idea 
of  such  an  exploit ! 

And  higher  and  nobler  thoughts,  such  as  he  was 
wont  to  cherish,  came  back,  —  old  aspirations  and  inspir 
ations.  He  had  been  marked,  —  came  such  from  birth. 
The  ordinary  lower  channels  of  human  action  were  in 
some  way  clogged  and  choked  up,  and  his  life  would 
not  flow  in  them.  He  must  vault  above,  and  solitary. 
Was  not  this  blot  upon  him  merely  on  the  outer  wall 
of  life,  a  wretched  placard,  by  which  prejudice  adver 
tised  the  faults  of  his  parents?  Did  it  reach  the 
essential  self,  —  the  soul?  Was  not  that  pure,  and 
good,  and  elevated?  Were  not  his  sympathies  qnk;k 
and  warm,  his  aspirations  noble  and  great  ?  Was  there 
anything  mean  and  sordid,  low  and  base,  in  him?  Had 
he  not  always  jealously  watched  every  thought,  and 
the  springs  of  thought,  —  every  turn  and  bent  of  mind? 
Had  he  not  familiarized  himself  with  the  thoughts  and 
lives  of  the  pure  and  essentially  great,  and  proposed 
for  himself  a  pure  and  elevated  career  of  labor,  and 
devotion,  and  self-sacrifice  ?  What  if  men  turned  from 


AN    INTROSPECTION.  215 

him?  "What,  after  all,  were  the  few  years  to  which,  at 
the  most,  life  was  limited?  What  did  it  really  matter 
how  this  first  gasp  of  time  was  spent?  What  were 
sixty  years  to  eternity  ?  Had  he  not  a  soul,  capable 
of  strong  and  steady  upward  soarings?  He  opened 
a  window,  and  looked  out  and  up  into  the  studded 
vault.  "What  an  awful  sight,  and  yet  comprehending 
somewhat  —  at  least  feeling  its  sublimity  —  I  confront 
it.  I  am  not  abashed  and  overwhelmed  by  it.  Some 
thing  of  the  Father  God  is  within  me,  and  I  look  into 
these  shadow}"  realms,  which  darkness  makes  palpable, 
as  something  belonging  to  me,  and  I  to  it.  I  am  an 
atom  of  cvpn  infinity,  that  cannot  be  lost.  What 
matter  these  few  days  and  pangs,  and  shames  and 
abasements  ?  " 

Looking  again,  long  and  anxiously:  "Yet  where  is. 
God,  who  so  reveals  His  works  to  us  and  hides  Him 
self?  B}'  what  means  does  lie  work,  and  with  what? 
Where  does  He  hide  His  awful  powers,  and  store  away 
His  incomprehensible  energies?  Is  He  still  creating  in 
the  measureless  infinities  of  space  away  from  us?  Still 
fashioning  and  finishing  ?  And  when  these  new  universes 
are  complete,  will  lie  return,  and  bring  to  our  dark 
ened  worlds  the  summer  of  His  presence?  Or  does 
He  occupy  Himself  with  merely  ruling  these  worlds? 
How  idle  that  would  be  for  Him  !  Does  it  cost  Him 
much  outlay  to  govern  us  —  and  misgovern  —  if  men 
say  truly?  What  braggarts,  to  suppose  that  much  time 
or  thought  is  spent  on  us.  How  weak  and  base  we  are, 
—  born  base,  some  of  us,  and,  when  we  confront  these 
blazing  worlds,  we  know  that  we  cannot  be  God's 
noblest  work.  What  creatures  He  might  have  made 


216  THE    PORTRAIT. 

us,  had  it  minded  Him  to.  Yet  we  may  aspire,  and  in 
this  lies  onr  marvellous  excellence.  We  may  hope,  and 
grow,  and  lift  ourselves  up,  purify,  and  be  ennobled  ; 
contemn  ourselves,  and  sordid  lives  and  surroundings, 
and  escape  from  the  darkened  atmosphere  of  earth 
and  its  night-projecting  shadow.  I  feel  something  of 
this,"  and  he  closed  the  window  and  sat  down. 

"  Oh,  I  will  struggle  to  purify  1113-  very  soul  and 
heart,  and  thought  and  desires,  and  be  familiar  with 
none  but  the  pure  and  good  and  holy  ;  and  3'ct  I  am 
so  lonely !  Surety  God  means  companions  for  us, 
and  this  beautiful  one,  —  she  may  some  time  know  and 
feel  that  in  spirit,  in  soul,  I  am  not  wholly  unworthy 
of  her.  Is  there  such  a  thing  as  love  and  communion 
beyond  the  earth,  outside  of  the  flesh,  and  above  the 
senses?  lias  it  ever  been  felt  or  found  in  this  world? 
Has  it  not  been  sighed  for,  prayed  for,  and  felt,  and 
found  onl^y  to  be  rags  and  filth,  in  which  seething  "sense 
and  lust  have  generated  maggots  such  as.  —  horror! 
Wiry  do  I  come  back  to  this?  How  low  and  earthy  I 
am,  —  not  good  enough  to  preach.  Oh,  what  a  luxury 
to  go  up  on  lull-sides,  or  in  wooded  vallc3*s,  and  call 
men  about  me,  and  tell  them  of  God,  and  \lcad  them 
from  their  sordid  lives.  I  ?  Ha,  ha  !  I  can't  bear  to 
think  of  what  I  am,  or  where  I  begun.  What,  a 
preacher  I'd  be  !  I  should  avoid  churches  and  meet 
ing-houses.  Lord,  how  the  old  theological  pot-shells 
should  be  pulverized  !  Oh  dear,  I  would  never  be  good 
enough  to  preach,  when  I  begin  \iy  this  self-glorying. 
Then  it  might  not  do  to  preach  the  love  of  God  as  I 
would  be  glad  to  do.  After  all.  do  men  ever  accept  a 
higher  faith  until  they  are  fit  for  it?  When  they 


AN    INTROSPECTION.  217 

really  believe  it,  it  saves  them.  If  they  did  not,  they 
would  be  under  the  old  restraining  fear  and  healthy 
slavery  of  the  devil ;  so  no  harm  would  come  in  any 
event" —  a  pause.  "  To  go  forth  as  in  the  older  time, 
or  upw,  in  the  pure  spirit,  and  preach  a  pure  gospel, 
with  a  high-born  and  beautiful  woman,  sweet  and 
angelic,  to  love  as  such  might,  and  encourage  }*ou,  —  to 
let  3rou  come  to  her,  after  long  absences,  worn  and 
poor,  and  to  be  cheered  and  nursed  back  to  new 
strength  and  life  b}'  her !  "  He  thought  of  Belle  conse 
crated  to  her  husband  in  heaven,  yet  loving  and  sus 
taining  one  on  earth,  and  ever  in  unapproachable 
purity. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
BELLE'S  LETTER. 

finished  this  somewhat  memorable  visit  to 
-L  the  old  home  of  his  childhood,  and  went  away 
as  he  came,  quietly  and  without  notice.  He  wont 
about  among  his  early  acquaintances,  visited  Sarah, 
accompanied  by  Martha  and  Belle,  and  brought  his 
satchel  down  the  next  morning  after  the  return ;  and, 
when  breakfast  was  over,  he  arose,  and  unexpectedly 
bade  them  good-by.  He  walked  out  through  the  little 
arbor,  where  he  paused  a  moment,  and  turned  to  flash 
back,  upon  the  still  astonished  eyes  of  Belle,  the  Flor 
ence  portrait.  There  was  always  much  of  admiration 
for  him  in  Mantua,  and  now  they  found  him  so  mature 
and  manly,  so  modest  and  gentle,  and  so  intelligent 
and  well-informed  on  all  possible  subjects,  upon  all  of 
which  he  spoke  well,  that  well-read  men  —  and  Mantua 
had  many  —  were  surprised  at  the  extent  and  accuracy 
of  his  information.  He  was  not  what  men  call  showy, 
but  sensible,  and  waited  to  be  drawn  out ;  and, 
though  plainly  dressed,  he  had  a  careless  way  of  wear 
ing  his  clothes,  at  once  elegant  and  free  from  puppy 
ism.  It  was  noticed  that  he  did  not  wear  a  ring,  or 
chain,  or  pin,  or  marked  color.  His  manner  was  a  lit 
tle  reserved,  like  that  of  one  who  thought  better  of 
(218) 


BELLE'S  LETTER.  219 

himself  than  he  supposed  he  was  rated  by  others,  and 
who  waited  to  be  asked  before  opening  himself  out. 

To  say  that  he  was  not  observed,  and  closely,  by 
Belle,  would  do  the  perceptions  of  that  young  lady 
injustice.  Accustomed  to  the  case  and  refinements 
of  the  best  forms  of  culture  in  the  United  States, 
and  having  passed  many  3'ears  in  Europe,  whatever 
else  she  ma}*  have  found  or  fancied  about  him,  she 
found  his  manners  and  address  veiy  attractive.  She 
especially  admired  the  unconscious  elevation  of  his 
sentiments,  as  well  as  the  delicacy  and  puritj-  of  his 
tastes  and  manner,  and  the  ease  and  felicity  with 
which  he  expressed  himself. 

On  the  evening  before  his  departure,  Uncle  Seth, 
who  was  somewhat  hoarse,  asked  him  to  read  the  even 
ing  lesson  from  the  Bible,  and  pointed  him  to  the  fourth 
chapter  of  Matthew,  which  Fred  rendered  so  simply, 
naturally,  and  beautifully,  that  his  listeners  asked  him 
to  go  on,  as  he  did,  through  the  fifth,  sixth,  and  sev 
enth.  His  voice  was  rich  and  soft,  his  sensibilities 
very  quick  and  deep,  and  he  seemed  to  deliver  the  nar 
rative,  and  the  grand,  simple  utterances  of  the  Great 
Teacher,  in  the  purit}'  and  spirit  which  inspired  them. 
As  he  went  on,  a  deep  fervor  seemed  to  grow  up 
and  glow,  until  the  far-off  scenery,  with  the  spirit  of 
loneliness  stamped  upon  the  Orient  —  the  primitive  and 
curious  multitudes,  and  the  wonderfully  serene  pres 
ence,  calm  and  sacred,  of  the  young  Christ — seemed 
to  be  brought  before  the  vision  of  his  wondering, 
rapt,  and  exalted  listeners.  When  he  reached  the 
last  sentence  of  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount,  his  voice 
trembled  in  a  softened  cadence,  and  ceased.  His  audi- 


220  THE    PORTRAIT. 

tors  listened  for  a  moment,  breathless,  as  if  expecting 
he  would  proceed,  and  a  shade  of  regret  fell  upon  their 
faces  when  they  saw  he  had  ended,  and  the  young 
women  turned  dewy  eyes  upon  hiin,  as  if  he  were  a 
young  prophet.  No  one  thought  of  asking  him  of  his 
faith,  and  no  one  for  a  moment  doubted  it.  The  face 
of  Belle,  in  particular,  wore  a  very  sweet  and  satisfied 
expression ;  and,  when  he  took  leave  of  her  the  next 
morning,  they  happened  to  be  a  little  apart  from  the 
others,  and,  whether  either  spoke  a  word,  the  anxious 
and  attentive  Martha  never  knew.  Something  mys 
terious  there  was  between  the  two,  she  knew,  —  some 
thing  unusual.  Was  it  repulsion  ?  Was  it  attraction  ? 
She  could  not  tell ;  and,  somehow,  this  deep  Belle 
wrapt  herself  so  completely  from  her  approach,  that 
she  scarcely  made  Fred  the  subject  of  a  remark  to 
her.  She  thought,  on  the  whole,  that  Fred  had  not 
been  appreciated  ;  and  for  nothing  will  a  woman  suffer 
sooner  in  the  estimation  of  another  woman,  than  for  a 
want  of  sympathy  in  her  admiration  for  her  favorites 
of  the  other  sex.  What  and  whom  does  she  like? 
thought  Martha,  and  who  does  she  suppose  will  come 
for  her?  If  she  thinks  as  I  think  she  thinks,  I  think 
•she  will  live  to  think  different!}-,  —  that's  all ;  with 
which  thoughtful  reflection  she  only  mentally  attached 
herself  the  more  closely  to  the  side  of  her  unfortunate 
favorite. 

Within  a  da}*  or  two  after  Fred's  departure,  Belle 
announced  that  a  carriage  would  come  for  her  the  last 
of  the  week. 

"  Belle  !  "  She  arose,  and  went  frankly  to  Martha, 
and  looked  her  fairly  and  honestly  in  her  eyes  for  a 


BELLE'S  LETTER.  221 

moment,  then  bent  down  and  kissed  her.  "  I've  over 
stayed  my  time  for  some  days.  I  am  expecting  that 
a  letter  has  by  this  time  reached  home,  which  will 
require  serious  attention." 

For  a  day  or  two  she  was  a  little — just  a  trifle  — 
restless  and  abstracted,  and  less  talkative  than  usual, 
—  a  little  coy  of  words,  and  not  so  much  given  to  look 
ing  up  when  Martha  called  to  her,  nor  always  when 
she  answered  ;  and  she  seemed  not  to  hear  so  quickly 
as  usual,  and  answered  a  little  away  from  the  matter 
in  hand  at  times. 

The  fourth  day  after  Fred  left,  late  in  the  snowy 
afternoon,  Belle  saw  a  youth  enter  the  gate,  and  look 
towards  the  house,  holding  a  letter  in  his  hand.  She 
stepped  to  the  door.  "  Mr.  Turner  told  me  to  give 
this  to  Mrs.  Williams,"  he  said,  as  if  doubting  that  the 
young-looking  girl  before  him  was  the  lad}'.  "  Thanks 
to  Mr.  Turner,  and  this  for  you,"  said  Belle,  taking  the 
letter,  and  giving  him  a  gold  coin.  Martha  had  gone 
down  to  the  Judge's,  and  she  was  alone.  She  never 
theless  went  to  her  room,  without  looking  at  the  letter. 
When  she  entered  it,  she  stood  and  studied  the  firm 
hand  of  the  address,  in  the  way  of  people  who  so  phil 
osophically  question  the  outside  of  a  letter  as  to  its 
contents.  Perhaps  she  did  not  care  to  know  what  it 
contained.  She  finally  opened  it,  spread  the  pages 
out,  and  looked  at  the  strong,  firm,  man's  handsome 
hand,  not  like  that  of  a  clerk,  yet  full  of  character, 
and,  in  places,  thrown  on  as  if  by  unrestrained  im 
pulse. 

The  first  part  of  the  manuscript  was  regular,  easy 
and  flowing  ;  then  the  characters  grew  large  and  sharp, 


222  THE    PORTRAIT. 

v 

running  and  rushing  with  gaps  and  blots,  and  some 
times  illegible,  as  if  the  writer  had,  in  frenzies  and 
spasms,  dashed  himself  in  broken  and  abrupt  sentences 
upon  the  paper,  and  at  moments  with  both  hands. 

Belle  read  in  fits  and  starts,  looking  frightened,  and 
casting  her  e}*es  about  as  in  momentary  apprehension. 
Thus  it  finally  rendered  itself  to  her  on  her  last  reading : 

"  I  hurried  abruptly  from  you,  ere  I  should  alarm  or 
overwhelm  you  with  the  rhapsodies  of  passion.  I 
must  speak,  —  and  as  j'ou  must  have  felt  I  would. 
You  ma}r  be  amazed  at  what  I  set  down  here,  but  not 
at  all  that  I  write  3-011.  Why  do  I  ?  Why  do  the  waters 
finally  break  and  rush? 

"Oh,  loveliest  one  —  most  beautiful  —  that  makest 
the  earth  glad  with  thy  loveliness,  and  yet  a  solitude 
in  thy  unapproachableness.  I  love  thee,  I  love  thee,  — 
I  love  thee !  Dost  thou  hear  and  comprehend  ?  It 
is  for  woman  to  hear  her  lover,  but  she  cannot  compre 
hend,  nor  does  he,  the  strong  outgoing  onrushing 
tide  that  would  sweep  about  and  encompass  her  with 
an  ocean  of  worship  and  reverence.  I  would  not  pipe 
to  thee  on  the  lover's  thin  reed,  nor  sigh  and  bring 
flowers,  and  twist  garlands  of  meaningless  praises,  but 
create  a  solitude,  in  the  midst  of  which  I  would  en 
throne  thee.  I  would  snatch  from  the  day  its  glory, 
and  pluck  from  the  brow  of  night  its  stars  to  crown 
thee,  and  then  men,  with  palms  and  garlands,  should 
come  to  worship  thee.  I  would  ask  nothing,  seek 
nothing,  but  to  worship  in  distance  and  in  silence. 

"  I  am  not  frenzied  ;  I  am  not  one  to  go  fanc3r-mad. 

This  is  not  the  fantastic,  frantic  cry  of  a  weak  soul  and  a 

.  shallow  nature,  but  from  depths  and  strength  my  voice 


BELLE'S  LETTER.  223 

goes,  —  will  go  out  to  you;  nature,  art,  man,  God, 
almost,  have  conspired  to  manacle,  to  imprison  mo,  — 
wall  me  out  from  3-0111-  presence,  so  that  I  may  not 
go  as  a  man  would  go,  and  tell  you  his  love.  I  assert 
myself,  wrench  from  around  me  these  chains,  and  dash 
the  walls  of  my  prison-house  into  shatters.  I  rush 
into  your  presence,  and  kneel  at  }'our  feet,  and  tell  yon 
that  I  love  you.  Only  that,  only  that !  and  then  I  put 
my  lips  in  the  dust,  and,  without  cry  or  moan,  remain 
forever  mute. 

"  A  3'oung  barbarian,  from  the  depths  of  savager}', 
comes  out  upon  the  margin  of  the  hoar  and  shaggy 
forest,  out  of  night  and  darkness,  and  beholds  for  the  first 
time  his  star.  He  knows  that  it  is  his,  and  falls  upon 
his  knees  in  adoration,  and  longs,  —  oh,  so  passionately 
and  yearningly  !  —  that  the  star  should  know  of  his 
worship." 

That  was  all,  —  no  name  or  initial  was  appended  to 
it.  Twilight  deepened  into  darkness  about  Belle,  as, 
with  great  heaving,  gasping  sobs,  she  still  lay  with  her 
head  buried  upon  the  table.  Is  she  woman?  or  more? 
or  less?  An  hour  later  she  appeared  below,  having 
suffered  from  a  sudden  headache,  as  women  sometimes 
do.  She  was  very  quiet,  and  Martha,  who  was  given 
to  observation,  thought  that  she  had  never  seen  so  deep 
a  light  in  her  wondrous  eyes. 

When  she  left  for  home,  two  days  later,  she  told 
Martha  that  she  meant  to  be  at  her  bridal,  but  that  she 
thought  that  a  widow  should  never  be  a  bridesmaid,  and 
that  Fred  certainly  ought  to  be  differently  matched,  — 
on  that  occasion. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII. 

A    MESSAGE    TO    FRED. 

IN  mid  March,  the  whole  State  .of  Ohio  and  the 
country  generally  were  startled  with  the  account  of 
a  murder.  In  the  limits  of  the  newly -formed  county 
of  Mahoning,  made  up  of  the  old  counties  of  Portage  ! 
and  Trumbull,  just  on  the  margin  of  a  wood,  tn  the 
newly-settled  part  of  one  of  the  townships,  the  body  of 
a  man  was  found,  just  by  the  wayside,  murdered.  He 
was  a  stranger,  middle-aged  and  dark,  and  nothing 
was  found  on  his  person  indicating  his  identit}*.  He 
was  well  clothed,  and  had  spurs  on  his  boots  ;  about 
a  mile  from  him,  tangled  in  its  bridle,  saddled,  and  well 
caparisoned,  was  found  a  horse,  supposed  to  have 
been  ridden  by  the  murdered  man.  It  was  said  that  he 
had  been  seen,  at  several  places  west  of  the  point 
where  found,  mounted  on  this  or  a  similar  horse ;  and 
finally  it  was  rumored  that  he  had  been  followed 
by  one,  and  some  said  two,  men  from  the  West.  Later 
still,  it  was  reported  that  he  was  a  seceding  Mormon, 
and  had  been  followed  and  murdered  b}'  some  of  the 
Thug  band  of  Danites,  doubtless  under  instructions 
from  the  new  head  of  the  church. 

Intense  excitement  prevailed  all  through  the  country. 
Acts  of  violence  were  rare,  and  in  many  of  the  Reserve 
(224) 


A    MESSAGE    TO    FRED.  225 

counties  a  homicide  had  never  occurred.  The  news 
papers  were  full  of  the  tragic  event,  and  the  wildest 
and  absurdest  rumors  prevailed  among  the  people. 
The  authorities,  unfamiliar  with  such  cases,  were  on 
the  most  confused  alert,  investigating  and  blundering 
in  the  most  compendious  way. 

The  coroner  called  a  jury  and  held  an  inquest  on  the 
bod}-,  where  it  lay  in  the  woods,  with  the  March  flowers 
crushed  under  it.  Hundreds  of  people  attended,  and 
many  from  twenty  miles  distance.  It  was  in  proof 
befoi'e  the  jury,  that  a  man  similarly  dressed,  and 
riding  the  horse  afterwards  found,  was  seen  to  enter 
the  woods  just  at  twilight,  a  mile  from  the  scene,  and 
that  a  young  man,  on  his  way  to  his  sugar-bush,  found 
the  body  early  the  next  morning.  Three  or  four 
doctors  concluded  that  death  was  caused  by  a  blow 
from  a  bludgeon  upon  the  head,  and  other  evidence 
was  given  that  the  bod}-  had  been  robbed.  Finally  a 
man  came  forward,  who  identified  the  body  as  that  of 
Oliver  Olney.  The  horse  was  produced  and  inspected. 
The  jury  returned  that  the  man  known  as  Oliver 
Olney  came  to  his  death  by  a  blow  from  a  bludgeon  in 
'the  hands  of  some  person  to  the  jurors  unknown.  Two 
days  later,  the  body  was  buried  with  great  solemnity  in 
the  presence  of  a  concourse  of  more  than  a  thousand 
people.  The  officiating  clergyman  preached  a  most 
acceptable  sermon  from  the  words,  "  Whoso  sheddeth 
man's  blood,"  etc. 

About  ten  days  later,  Fred  received,  at  his  office  in 
Massillon,  the  following  note  : 
15 


226  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"  CANFIELD,  March  26,  1845. 
"  FRED  WARDEN,  ESQ.  : 

"  Sir, — Your  old  enemy,  Jake  Green,  is  now  in  jail 
here,  charged  with  murder.  He  is  without  counsel, 
money,  or  friends." 

There  was  no  name  signed  to  it ;  nor  was  there  on 
the  envelope  any  mark  or  clew  to  the  writer.  The  note 
was  in  a  man's  hand,  unmistakably. 

Jake  had  been  arrested  in  Coshocton  a  few  days 
after  the  murder,  while  making  towards  the  lower  part 
of  the  State.  He  had  been  followed  from  the  vicinity 
of  the  tragedy,  near  the  scene  of  which  he  was  observed 
on  the  morning  of  the  discovery  of  the  bod}r.  It  was 
said  that  many  things  —  some  mysterious  papers  —  were 
found  on  him,  going  to  show  that  the  deceased  was 
Oliver  Olney,  a  former  resident  of  Geauga  county,  an 
early  convert  to  Mormonism,  and  a  supposed  adherent 
of  Rigdon's,  and  who,  it  was  said,  had  fled  from  Nauvoo 
recently.  It  was  rumored  that  Jake  and  one  other  had 
followed  Olney  from  Nauvoo,  and,  as  was  believed, 
had  come  up  with,  waylaid  and  murdered  him.  The 
case  was  said  to  be  very  clear  against  Jake  ;  and  popular 
feeling,  even  among  the  cool,  law-loving  citizens  of 
Northern  Ohio,  was  intense  against  him.  The  bad 
reputation  of  Jake  about  Mantua  soon  reached  the 
venue  of  his  alleged  crime,  and  tended  much  to 
deepen  the  feeling  to  his  prejudice. 

Jake  had  been  absent  from  Northern  Ohio  for  some 
years,  and  Avas  supposed  to  be  with  the  Mormons, 
among  whom,  as  was  thought,  his  father  and  aunt  still 
resided. 


A    MESSAGE   TO    FRED.  227 

At  his  arrest  he  began  by  a  denial,  and  then  main 
tained  a  sullen,  dogged  silence  ;  proof,  of  course,  of  his 
guilt.  The  popular  rule  bears  hard  on  a  suspected 
man.  If  he  talks,  it  is  to  deny  and  mislead.  If  he  is 
silent,  it  is  of  course  because  he  cannot  deny  his  guilt. 

Jake,  a  sturdy,  sullen  villain,  whom  the  officers  could 
hardly  protect  from  violence,  was  heavil}*  ironed,  and 
lodged  in  the  strongest  cell  of  the  new  prison.  Hun 
dreds  had  been  to  gaze  through  the  grated  windows,  and 
wonder  and  jeer,  mock  and  taunt  him ;  none  to  speak 
kindly,  or  express  the  slightest  s^ympathy  in  his  fate,  or 
pity  for  his  condition.  He  was  the  obtuse,  hardened, 
blood-stained  murderer,  whom  it  was  useless  to  try,  save 
as  a  compliance  with  the  useless  forms  of  law,  and  to  pity 
whom  was  a  crime  against  justice  and  a  sin  against 
humanity.  Whenever  the  jailer  attended  upon  him  it 
was  always  under  the  protection  of  an  armed  guard, 
and  the  outside  world  was  daily  startled  and  horrified 
with  some  new  tale  of  the  poor  wretch's  guilt,  —  this 
being  the  thirteenth  or  fourteenth  murder  he  had  com 
mitted. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  fifth  day  of  his  confinement, 
when  the  western  sun  lit  up  his  cell  from  the  one 
small  barred  window,  his  prison-door  was  opened,  and 
a  tall,  commanding,  open  browed,  kindly-eyed  j'oung 
man  stepped  lightlj-  in,  and  the  door  was  locked  on 
him.  So  bright  and  gentle  and  kindly  beamed  his 
face,  that  Jake  did  not  recognize  him,  till  the  voice,— 
"Jake,  old  fellow,  how  are  you? "and  Fred  frankly 
held  out  his  hand.  Jake  took  it  mechanical!}'  in  his 
hard  and,  manacled  hand,  and  looked  wonderingly  and 
abashed  into  the  face,  the  lines  and  features  of  which 


228  THE    PORTRAIT. 

came  slowly  back.     "  Fred,  Fred,  is  this  yer?     Do  yer 
come  ter  dam  me?" 

"  I  come  to  help  you  ;  of  course  I  do.  "We  are  old 
acquaintances,  and  relations  for  aught  I  know  ;  at  any 
rate  we  are  both  human,  and  one  of  us  wants  help." 

"  Fred,"  said  the  touched  Jake,  "  I  killed  yer  dog 
when  —  " 

"  Never  mind  that  now.  Poor  "Walter  would 
have  died  long  ago.  I  am  a  man  now,  Jake,  I  am  a 
lawyer ;  have  been  a  good  deal  in  the  courts,  have 
earned  a  little  mono}',  and  I  came  on  purpose  to  defend 
you,  and  get  you  out  of  this." 

"  Do  3'er  mean  it,  —  raly,  Fred  ?  "  breaking  down. 

"  Indeed  I  do.  I  came  for  no  other  purpose  under 
the  heavens." 

They  sat  down  for  a  long  and  earnest  conference ; 
Jake  was  broken  and  incoherent,  and  Fred  held  him 
and  questioned  as  the  nisi  prius  lawyer  of  all  mortals 
only  knows  how  to  do ;  Fred  had  seen  four  years  of 
considerable  practice,  was  accustomed  to  go  to  his  books 
instead  of  begging  broken  morsels  of  law  of  his  elders 
in  the  streets,  and  had  early  learned  to  depend  on 
himself.  It  is  a  marvel,  the  rapidity  and  clearness 
with  which  a  strong  legally-trained  mind  grasps, 
arranges  and  analyzes  facts,  and  leaps  to  conclusions, 
while  an  unaccustomed  mind,  however  strong  and  intel 
ligent,  is  struggling  with  an  undigested  mass  of  details 
complex  in  their  nature,  and  confused  from  want 
of  method.  They  have  crystallized  in  his  ;  he  steps 
from  one  governing  point  to  another,  and  is  at  home, 
while  the  other  still  struggles  with  the  tangled  skein. 


A    MESSAGE    TO    FRED.  229 

Fred  made  a  few  notes  of  names  and  dates,  and  at  the 
end  of  an  hour  arose  to  go. 

"  Have  you  any  mone}',  Jake?" 

"No— but  I  —  " 

"  Take  that,  for  the  present,"  giving  him  a  ten- 
dollar  note. 

At  his  call,  the  jailer  came. 

''Why  is  this  man  in  irons?"  demanded  Fred,  with 
grave  indignation. 

"  Why,  to  keep  him  safe,  I  s'pose." 

"Safe,  eh!  Has  he  attempted  to  escape?  Did  he 
resist?" 

"  Not's  I  know  on." 

"  Call  the  sheriff,  if  you  please."     The  sheriff  came. 

"  I  am  Fred  Warden,  a  lawyer,  and  counsel  for  this 
man.  May  I  know  by  whose  order  he  is  fettered  and 
manacled  here  in  this  cell  ?  "  The  tone  was  very  quiet, 
but  Fred  was  very  earnest,  and  men  were  very  much 
in  the  way  of  heeding  him  in  that  mood. 

"Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Warden,  that  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  excitement  against  him,  and  — 

"  You  chained  him  to  keep  the  ignorant  devils  from 
hurting  him,  I  suppose?" 

"Well,  not  quite  that." 

"What  then?  Your  prison  is  new  and  strong. 
lie  is  not  condemned,  —  is  presumed  to  be  innocent, 
whatever  excitement  there  may  be  against  him.  Do 
you  know  of  any  provision  of  the  Ohio  Statutes  that 
warrants  this  ?  " 

"  Not  as  I  know  of." 

"  Will  you  remove  those  chains?" 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it." 


230  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"  Most  certainly  I  do  ; "  and  the  jailer  was  called, 
and  poor  Jake's  limbs  were  liberated. 

As  he  went  out,  the  sheriff  was  very  much  impressed 
with  the  idea  that  Jake  would  be  defended  ;  and  there 
was  something  in  Fred's  way  and  manner,  something 
of  force  and  strength,  of  undeveloped  power,  that 
would  make  light  work  of  ordinary  difficulties. 

From  the  jail  Fred  went  to  the  office  of  a  }roung 
Iaw3-cr  of  the  name  of  Wilson,  with  whom  he  had 
a  long  conversation,  and  the  next  morning  they  both, 
on  horseback,  proceeded  to  the  scene  of  the  murder, 
where  they  were  met  by  a  surveyor  with  his  chain  and 
an  assistant.  The  young  man  who  made  the  discovery, 
and  others  who  saw  the  place  before  it  was  disturbed 
and  tramped  over,  were  summoned,  and  the  most  careful 
examination  of  every  possible  thing,  and  all  the  sur 
roundings  for  a  considerable  distance,  was  made  ;  dis 
tances  were  accurately  measured,  and  a  plat  of  the 
whole  ground  was  prepared  with  great  care. 

The  various  witnesses  were  of  course  very  willing  to 
talk,  and  under  Fred's  questioning,  were  surprised  at 
the  numberless  wholly  unimportant  things  he  called 
out  and  noted,  and  committed  them  to,  so  that  it 
would  be  hard  to  vary  from  their  statements,  made  in 
the  presence  of  so  many.  What  under  the  sun  he 
wanted  of  it  all  was  a  puzzle  to  them  ;  "  and  all  the 
time  he  looked  so  pleasant  and  quizzical,  and  as  if  he 
did  not  care  a  cuss,"  as  one  of  them  said,  in  his  ac 
count  of  the  matter. 

The  proceedings  concluded  with  a  disintermcnt  of 
the  remains,  and  a  most  careful  and  scientific  exam 
ination  of  them,  conducted  by  Dr.  Ackly,  of  Cleveland, 


A   MESSAGE   TO   FRED.  231 

in  the  presence  of  a  distinguished  practitioner  from 
Warren,  and  one  from  Ravenna.  This  act  was  thought  to 
be  little  short  of  an  outrage  upon  public  decency  and 
propriety  ;  and  folks  said  that  if  there  was  no  law  to 
prevent  such  shameful  carryings  on,  it  was  time  there 
•was.  What  earthly  use  was  there  in  digging  up  a 
dead  man,  as  if  he  could  be  made  to  tell  anything  on 
their  side  of  the  case?  Of  course,  that  was  all  the 
doings  of  the  doctors  ;  the}-  would  make  anything  an 
excuse  to  dig  up  and  cut  into  a  body ;  and  it  was 
popularly  believed  that  Dr.  Ackly  actualty  carried  off 
the  head  of  the  murdered  man  to  Cleveland,  and 
pickled  it  in  spirits,  and  that  each  of  the  others  took 
some  choice  bit.  At  last  Fred  finished  his  survey  and 
preparation.  Before  he  left,  he  had  an  interview  with 
the  prosecuting  officer  for  the  county,  who  said  that  he 
should  push  the  case  to  a  trial  earl}-  in  June.  When 
Fred  suggested  the  difficulty  of  getting  everything 
read}',  he  replied  that  it  was  an  atrocious  murder,  and 
public  opinion  demanded  a  speedy  trial  and  execu 
tion.  Fred  ventured  to  say,  that  in  the  present  condi 
tion  of  public  opinion  a  fair  trial  was  hardly  possible, 
and  was  assured  that  there  could  be  no  possible  doubt 
of  Jake's  guilt,  and  that  it  was  his  own  fault  that  pub 
lic  opinion  was  against  him.  Fred  left  him,  with  an 
intimation  that  the  rules  governing  the  continuances  of 
cases  of  this  importance  were  inflexible,  and  that  a 
man  would  exhibit  little  invention  if  he  permitted  such 
a  case  to  be  tried  until  he  was  entirely  ready. 

Whatever  may  have  been  Fred's  purpose  in  seeking 
this  interview,  he  left  in  the  bosom  of  the  prosecuting 
attorney  of  Mahoning  County,  a  healthy  determination 


232  THE    PORTRAIT. 

to  try  the  case  at  all  hazards,  at  as  early  a  day  as  pos 
sible.  He  rightly  judged  that  the  cool,  quiet,  and 
unassuming  young  man  who  acted  for  the  prisoner 
might,  with  time  and  delay,  get  up  an  embarrassing 
defence,  plain  and  undoubted  as  the  case  was. 

The  scene  of  the  exciting  labors  of  these  few  clays  was 
not  man}*  miles  distant  from  Newton  Falls,  and  mai:ry 
times  there  came  a  passionate  longing  into  the  young 
man's  heart  to  invent  some  excuse  for  going,  or  to  go 
without  any,  into  the  neighborhood,  only  to  look  upon 
the  house,  haunted  and  made  paradise  by  the  presence 
of  Belle.  Reluctantly,  and  with  sadness,  he  turned 
him  homeward  without  this  seemingly  poor  luxury. 
He  had  not  heard  a  word  of  or  from  her  since  he  left 
Mantua,  four  months  before.  He  knew  he  could  re 
ceive  nothing  from  her  in  reply  to  his  letter.  He 
knew  he  ought  not  to  have  sent  her  that,  but  he 
couldn't  help  it.  It  went  tearing  and  crashing  out  of 
him,  —  would  go.  He  could  not  recall  what  it  was, 
and  did  not  feel  much  contrition  for  it.  He  felt  that 
she  was  true  and  noble,  notwithstanding  her  quiet, 
dreamy,  nun-like  life.  When  men  fled  in  mortal 
fright,  did  she  not  dash  into  a  wintry  torrent  to  aid 
him  in  saving  the  drowning  maiden  ?  Not  on  his 
account,  of  course,  but  no  common  woman  would  have 
done  anything  but  stand  and  shriek,  if  she  had  not 
fainted.  Surely,  would  she  not  be  willing  that  he 
should  love  her?  Would  she  not  come  to  see,  in  time, 
that  no  harm,  no  hurt  to  her  purity,  could  come  to 
her  from  his  distant  and  sacred  worship?  Would  he 
not  struggle  to  make  his  soul  not  unworthy  of  hers, 
and  might  she  not  some  time  come  to  know  and  admit 


A    MESSAGE    TO    FRED.  233 

that?  Would  she  be  at  Martha's  wedding ?  He  doubted 
it.  He  should  go,  and  would  at  the  least  hear  some 
thing  of  her.  If  she  was  there,  what  could  he  say  to 
her  ?  He  now  regretted  that  awful  letter ;  it  would 
keep  her  awa}',  for  fear  of  meeting  him.  So  he  mused 
over  it  all,  and  rode  home,  as  he  worked  now,  in  the 
daily  light  of  his  great  love. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

AN    OLD    TIME    WEDDING. 

IN  the  far-off  old  time  of  which  I  write,  ere  the  beau 
tiful  slopes,  and  hills,  and  valleys  were  denuded 
of  the  wonderful  forests  that  once  furnished  homes, 
haunts,  and  hunts  for  Indian  and  beast ;  when  the 
openings  and  clearings,  protected  and  fenced  in  from 
winds,  and  traversed  by  innumerous  small  streams, 
which,  in  the  absence  of  great  evaporation,  found 
head  in  every  swale  or  cat-swamp,  and  a  course  or 
channel  in  every  little  vale,  the  tone  of  the  climate 
was  softer,  the  winters  more  moderate,  and  there  was 
still  an  actual  spring,  out  of  the  almanac  and  pastoral 
poetrj',  all  over  beautiful  Northern  Ohio. 

The  Carman  farm,  behind  its  protecting  mass  of 
timbered  land  which  fenced  it  on  the  north  with  its 
southern  inclination,  and  its  rich  warm  soil,  was  always 
the  first  to  feel  the  kindling  glow  of  spring  ;  and  now, 
on  Ma}--day,  was  radiant  and  fragrant  with  light  and 
blossoms.  In  the  woods  the  shad-bush  and  dog-wood 
made  little  ga^-  clouds  of  white,  under  which  blos 
somed  the  blood-root,  squaw-blow,  adders-tongue,  la 
dies'  slipper,  and  myriads  of  the  gay  and  unnamed 
children  of  April ;  the  grand  old  pear-tree  arose  in  front 
(234) 


AN   OLD   TIME   WEDDING.  235 

of  the  house,  a  marvellous  fragrant  white  pyramid, — 
one  mass  of  blossom  ;  the  cherries,  peaches,  and  plums 
were  failing,  but  the  great  orchards  were  one  wil 
derness  of  red  and  white,  while  the  whole  air,  faint 
and  weighted  with  perfume,  was  traversed  eveiywhere 
with  little  streamlet-like  hums  of  loaded  brown 
bees. 

It  was  a  great  day  at  the  old  red  farm-house.  All 
along  in  front  of  it,  tied  to  fence  or  tree,  were  many 
horses  and  carriages  ;  and  men  and  boys,  matrons  and 
maidens,  thronged  on  the  grass  in  the  yards,  under  the 
piazzas,  and  in  all  the  rooms  that  were  open,  all  in 
gala  dress,  and  with  bright  faces. 

It  was  Martha's  wedding-day.  All  the  famiby  rel 
atives  were  there  :  all  the  Carmans  of  Mantua,  of 
"Warren  and  Aurora  ;  the  Sheldons,  the  Iligleys,  from 
Windham,  man}-  prominent  persons  of  Mantua,  and 
all  the  neighbors. 

Uncle  Scth,  in  his  best  plnm-colored  home-made, 
with  his  calf-skin  boots  newly  greased,  with  his  serene, 
fine  face  —  that  always  had  a  touch  of  sadness  for  a  wed 
ding,  and  a  ray  of  light  for  a  funeral  — was  about  busy 
with  his  guests,  while  Aunt  Mary,  in  her  rich  old 
satins,  with  the  color  bright  on  her  cheek,  and  the  life 
quick  in  her  eye,  whose  housewifely  instinct  had  be 
came  an  outstinct  as  well,  managed  and  controlled 
everything  as  was  her  wont. 

A  little  buzz  —  a  lull  of  voices  —  and  then  a  crowd 
ing  into  doors  and  up  to  open  windows.  The  word 
had  been  given  ;  the  sitting-room  so  often  referred  to, 
in  which  were  the  nearest  friends,  was  opened  ;  and 
from  the  inner  punvtralia,  Aunt  Mary's  best  room- 


236  THE    PORTRAIT. 

too  sacred  to  be  mentioned  —  came  the  bride,  and  her 
manly,  handsome  bridegroom,  and  took  the  places  desig 
nated.  Near  them,  with  a  face  thinner  and  a  gather 
ing  moisture  in  his  eyes,  stood  Fred,  and  with  him  — 
her  hand  in  his  and  her  eyes  on  his  face  —  stood  the 
little  Hebe  whom  he  had  plucked  from  the  Cuyahoga. 
Belle  was  absent. 

Father  Henry  was  there,  and,  in  a  few  simple  and 
impressive  words,  performed  the  sanctifying  ceremony 
that  made  them-  one,  amid  the  sj-mpathizing  tears  of 
the  women,  and  the  grave,  grim  silence  of  men. 

If  there  is  one  thing  in  the  world  more  incompre 
hensible  than  others  to  the  average  masculine  mind, 
it  is  the  feeling  with  which  a  woman  always  witnesses 
the  marriage  ceremony.  Of  all  sublunary  or  celestial 
things,  the  farthest  from  the  mind  or  heart  of  the 
bridegroom  are  the  ineffable  thoughts  and  emotions 
of  the  trembling  one  whose  hand  he  holds,  when  she 
literally  gives  herself  to  him.  The  abandon,  the  devo 
tion  r  the  unreserve  of  that  act,  he  does  not  understand, 
and  the  words  that  would  express  it  would  convey 
little  meaning  to  him.  To  him,  a  little  pause  in  a  way 
faring  career  —  a  bending  for  her  hand  —  a  slight 
sidelong  deviation  that  he  may  receive  her, —  only  that, 
and  nothing  more.  To  her,  a  perfect  moral,  physical, 
and  mental  revolution,  —  a  coming  out  from  her  rnaidca 
life  of  dream  and  hope,  of  color  and  fragrance,  to  the 
world  which  she  does  not  know  ;  coming  out  from  the 
beautiful  mysteries  of  her  inner  self,  of  which  she 
knows  as  little,  and  placed  at  once  in  contact  with  the 
strong,  coarse,  and  often  vulgar  and  base  fibre  of  man's 
compelling  nature,  that  cannot  understand,  and  would 


AN    OLD    TIME    WEDDING.  237 

not  regard,  if  it  did,  the  subtle  and  delicate  fibre  of 
hers.  JSTo  wonder  that  matrons,  always  from  expe 
rience,  and  maidens  from  presentiment,  weep  at  her 
sacrifice.  Man  extends  one  hand,  with  one  side  of  his 
heart  to  her,  while  she  abandons  her  whole  self  to 
him. 

The  ceremony  was  short,  simple,  and  impressive  ;  and 
Martha,  sweet  and  arch,  and  blushing,  was  given  over 
to  the  congratulations  of  her  friends,  while  Fred  did 
what  he  could  to  sustain  the  bridegroom  under  the 
untowardness  which  is  so  trying  to  a  man  on  finding 
himself  in  a  position  subordinate  to  a  Avoman.  I  trust 
this  will  finally  be  found  to  be  but  "  inherited  expe 
rience,"  and  not  nature. 

Great  baskets  of  rich  cake  were  passed  about  the 
crowd,  to  be  devoured  by  the  men  and  preserved  and 
carried  home  by  the  women. 

Wine,  cider,  and  other  liquids  were  not  wanting,  and 
an  hour  was  given  to  the  heart}',  not  rude  or  vulgar, 
festivity  of  an  old  time  country  wedding,  from  which 
the  guests  departed  with  the  day ;  and  the  bride  and 
her  groom  were  remitted  to  the  seclusion  of  her  room, 
in  the  sanctuary  of  her  father's  house. 

Fred  had  not  expected  that  Belle  would  be  there, 
but  yet  more  bitterly  was  he  disappointed  at  her  ab 
sence  than  can  be  told.  Martha  had  hardly  heard 
from  her  since  she  left.  She  had  never,  till  recently, 
been  acquainted  with  her,  and  she  had  acted  very 
strangely,  as  she  thought.  She  had  written  to  Martha, 
soon  after  her  return  home,  that  matters  of  the  gravest 
importance  had  arisen  that  demanded  her  immediate 


238  THE    PORTRAIT. 

personal  attention,  and  that  she  should  go  South,  and 
possibly  went  at  once,  as  Martha  supposed  she  was 
now  absent.  She  did  not  tell  Fred  that,  in  her  letter, 
Belle  had  not  named  or  made  the  slightest  reference  to 
him,  which  she  thought  very  strange.  Indeed,  she  felt 
disappointed  in  this  Belle. 

Upon  the  dispersion  of  the  guests,  Fred,  under  the 
melancholy  that  oppressed  him,  rode  over  the  lonely 
road,  through  the  woods,  to  the  Rapids.  Night  was  in 
the  forests  with  its  shadow,  but  musical  with  the  plaint 
of  the  whippoorwill.  How  wonderfully  sweet  and  melan 
choly  to  the  ear  of  the  pensive  3'oung  man  came  the  many 
voices  of  the  shrunken  river,  no  longer  plunging  madty 
over  the  rocks,  but  murmuring  and  gurgling  musically 
in  the  channels  between  and  around  them.  He  rode 
across  the  river,  and  stood  under  the  shadow  of  the 
unbroken  wood  on  the  east  side. 

With  what  force  it  all  came  back  to  him,  —  the 
bright  sun  and  sparkling  ice  —  the  cry,  the  race,  the 
disappearing  red  —  the  plunge  into  the  mad,  boiling 
waters  —  the  grasp,  and  desperate  struggle  —  the  al 
most  failure  at  last  —  and  then  the  marvellous  rescue 
of  Belle's  eyes  first,  and  then  her  hands.  He  rode 
back,  and  slowly  honae  through  the  darkened  woods,  and 
as  he  went  he  thought  it  all  over :  her  repulse  of  his 
attempted  apology  ;  her  avoiding  him  on  the  morning 
ride  to  the  river,  with  every  detail,  upon  which  his  now 
morbid  fancy  threw  a  strong  adverse  color.  The  rude, 
violent,  and  unmanly  letter  of  his  may  have  been 
coarse  and  vulgar  to  her  ear  and  sense.  She  may 
have  burned  it  without  reading.  But,  in  any  event,  it 


AN    OLD    TIME    WEDDING.  239 

was  a  crime  against  her  delicacy  and  self-respect.  It 
had  kept  her  from  Martha's  wedding,  and  would  for 
ever  bar  him  from  her  presence.  Could  he  apologize 
for  this?  Would  it  not  aggravate  his  offending?  After 
all,  was  he  not  entitled  to  some  consideration  as  a 
human  being?  Was  it  not  a  part  of  his  life  and 
fortune,  the  recoil  of  the  invisible,  always-felt  chain 
that  so  darkly  bound  him,  —  alwa3~s  most  tense  and 
galling  when  its  absence  alone  could  produce  peace  or 
render  life  endurable  ?  He  would  address  her  one  more 
letter : 

"Ax  THE  CARMAX.S,  May  1,  1845.  —  Evening. 
"Mus.  BELLE  WILLIAMS: 

"Madam,  —  You  were  not  here  to-day,  and  the  fear 
of  my  presence  compelled  your  absence.  I  am  hateful 
to  myself.  Inadvertently  I  was  the  cause  of  a  deep 
wound  to  your  delicacy.  I  was  foolish  enough  to  at 
tempt  an  apology.  Invention  could  find  no  words  in 
which  to  frame  it,  and  you  turned  your  face  from  me 
in  horror,  and  rebuked  me  with  your  hand. 

*'  In  my  madness  and  folly,  I  dashed  the  fury  and 
passion  of  my  love  for  you  upon  paper,  and  sent  it 
to  you. 

"  It  is  a  love  that  does  you  no  dishonor.  Your  hus 
band  in  heaven  would  not  reproach  me  for  it.  It 
would  give  me  infinite  peace  to  know  that  I  had  not 
offended  beyond  pardon,  by  some  word  or  token  —  a 
bit  of  soiled  paper,  a  withered  leaf— the  most  worth 
less  trifle  the  world  holds,  —  anything  from  you.  If 
I  may  not  receive  such,  I  shall  know  I  am  to  remain  a 
stranger.  If  I  do,  I  shall  count  upon  only  a  distant, 


240  THE    PORTRAIT. 

casual  acquaintanceship,  which  is  never  to  pass  the 
line  of  cold  recognition,  at  accidental  meetings.  Is 
this  too  much  for  me  to  ask  ? 

"  Ever,  with  profoundest  respect, 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  FKED." 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

A  TRIBUNE    OF  THE    PEOPLE. AN    OLD-TIME    GATHERING. 

HOW  singularly  remote  events  sometimes  influence 
the  fortunes  of  ordinary  persons  ! 
In  the  autumn  before,  the  "  Creole  "  cleared  at  Nor 
folk  for  New  Orleans,  with  a  cargo  of  one  hundred  and 
thirty-six  freshly-imported  Africans,  —  slaves,  as  we 
called  such  folk  then.  When  at  sea,  under  the  in 
spiration  of  winds  and  waves,  they  mutinied  —  these 
deluded  Africans  —  without  the  least  reverence  for  the 
Constitution,  the  greatest  work  of  man,  and  with  slight 
regard  for  the  freest  and  best  government  God  ever 
inspired  man  to  make,  —  the  heathen.  The}-  overcame 
the  captain  and  crew,  and  then,  under  threat  of  death, 
ordered  them  to  steer  for  the  coast  of  Africa.  They 
were  taken  to  Nassau,  and  delivered  to  the  British 
authorities.  Mr.  Webster  —  the  god-like  in  this  at 
leust, —  his  action  was  inscrutable  —  then  Secretary  of 
State,  demanded  that  they  be  returned  into  slavery, 
Onessimus-like.  Great  excitement  followed  ;  and  early 
:  n  the  present  March,  Mr.  Giddings  introduced  a  series 
of  resolutions  into  the  House  of  Representatives,  de 
claring  that  at  open  sea,  outside  of  the  reach  of  State 
laws,  these  wretches  were  free,  and  might  assert  their 
16  (211) 


242  THE    POI1TRAIT. 

right  to  freedom  by  rising  upon  their  jailers,  as  they 
had  done.  For  the  utterance  of  this  heretical  formula, 
Mr.  Giddings,  on  motion  of  Mr.  Botts,  of  Virginia,  was, 
by  a  vote  of  the  House,  condemned,  and  formally  cen 
sured  by  a  majority  sufficient  to  have  expelled  him. 
He  at  once  resigned,  returned  home,  demanded  from 
the  Governor  of  Ohio  an  order  for  a  new  election,  and 
went  boldly  to  the  people.  The  Whig  leaders,  at  that 
time,  even  those  of  anti-slavery  tendencies,  condemned 
his  course  as  impolitic.  His  sentiments  were  sound  in 
the  abstract,  but  it  was  inexpedient  to  put  them  forth 
at  that  time.  Alas  for  abstract  truth  !  the  time  for  its 
utterance  never  comes.  Most  of  those  who  voted  to 
sustain  him  did  so  reluctantly,  were  glad  of  the  cen 
sure,  and  thought  his  true  course  was  penitently  to 
submit.  At  home,  the  leaders  stood  away  from  him. 
The  Democrats  did  not  think  it  expedient  to  put  a 
candidate  in  the  field,  and  the  leading  Whigs,  standing 
coldly  aloof,  permitted  him  to  go  over  the  course  with 
such  chilling  cheer  as  they  managed  to  give  him. 

The  day  of  election  was  early,  the  time  short,  and 
Mr.  Giddings  was  left  to  make  such  a  canvass  as  he 
could.  lie  came  back  quivering  under  the  insult  he 
had  received,  and  indignant  at  the  cowardly  coolness 
of  the  party  leaders,  and  went  upon  the  stump,  first  set 
up  on  the  Reserve  in  the  campaign  of  1840. 

Fred,  who  was  nominally,  at  least,  a  Democrat,  had 
made  some  reputation  as  a  3'oung  speaker  in  1840,  to 
which  he  had  added  in  the  Clay-Polk  canvass  of  '44, 
and  by  many  was  thought  to  give  much  promise  as  an 
orator,  was  attending  court  at  Chardon  when  Giddings 
spoke  there,  became  much  interested,  and,  at  Mr.  Gid- 


A   TRIBUNE    OP   THE   PEOPLE.  243 

dings's  earnest  request,  attended  some  of  the  called 
meetings  with  him. 

Among  the  personal  and  political  friends  of  Mr. 
Giddings  was  a  prominent  man  of  Turnbull  County, 
not  a  politician,  but  of  great  wealth  and  personal  influ 
ence.  He  was  at  much  pains  and  expense  to  get  up  a 
gathering  of  the  people  for  Mr.  Giddings,  which  came 
off  a  few  miles  from  Warren,  about  three  weeks  after 
Martha's  wedding.  A  spacious  out-door  stand  was 
erected,  a  band  secured,  immense  posters  placarded 
the  adjacent  portions  of  Geauga  and  Portage,  flags 
and  mottoes  were  extemporized,  and  with  the  day 
came  the  people  also.  They  all  came,  —  came  with 
their  wives  and  children,  in  their  wagons  and  carts, 
carriages,  buggies  and  carryalls.  They  formed  pro 
cessions  on  all  the  roads  of  approach,  and,  with  old 
Harrison  flags  and  banners,  the  log  cabins  and  canoes 
of  1840,  and  the  flags  and  banners  of  the  last  cam 
paign  floating  and  flying,  with  martial  music,  fifes, 
drums,  and  bugles,  they  came. 

The  meeting  was  in  mid-day  ;  for  all  these  people 
were  to  return  in  time  for  many  duties  at  evening. 

Mr.  Giddings  arose  amid  breathless  silence,  and, 
under  the  tension  of  his  feelings  and  convictions,  he 
was  never  so  thorough  a  master  of  his  best  powers  as 
now  ;  never  in  his  long  career  was  he  so  effective  as 
during  this  short  canvass.  The  hesitation  of  speech, 
and  lack  of  language,  which  sometimes  marked  and 
marred  his  speeches  were  absent,  and  a  steady  flow  of 
strong,  nervous  language  carried  out  and  delivered  his 
meaning  as  he  would.  Simply,  clearly,  and  grandly, 
he  opened  out  the  whole  matter  ;  and  then  giving  him- 


244  THE    PORTRAIT. 

self  up  in  his  heightened  warmth,  he  closed  out  a  two- 
and-a-hulf  hours'  speech,  almost  sublimely. 

Repeated  cheers  greeted  and  helped  him  on.  lie 
was  one  to  be  so  helped  ;  and  when  he  sat  down,  three 
times  three,  as  in  the  old  Tippecanoe  campaign,  evi 
denced  the  fervor  of  this  usually  cool,  calculating,  and 
phlegmatic  people  ;  then  the  band  played  a  stirring  air 
when  the  young  Democrat  was  announced,  and  Fred, 
from  the  rear  of  the  stand,  went  forward  to  the  front, 
standing  upon  its  edge  by  the  end  of  a  table.'  He 
paused  for  a  moment,  silent,  and  the  curious  crowd 
bent  eagerly  forward  to  get  sight  of  him.  There  he 
stood,  in  the  simple  beauty  and  grace  of  }~oung  and 
almost  perfect  manhood.  The  crowd  expressed  its 
satisfaction  with  rapturous  cries  of  applause. 

lie  began,  falteringly  and  hesitating!}',  the  little  sim 
ple  formula  which  his  experience  had  taught  him  to 
have  ready  until  he  was  sure  of  himself.  In  a  moment 
he  did  not  hear  his  own  voice,  —  for  just  then  the  crowd 
parted  at  his  right,  and  a  carriage  was  permitted  to 
occupy  the  space  ;  in  it,  on  the  front  seat,  and  so  near 
him  that  he  could  have  tossed  a  bouquet  into  her  lap, 
sat  the  peerless  Belle.  Not  a  lisp  or  whisper  had  she 
responded  to  his  plaint.  He  was  despised  and  scorned, 
and  there  she  was,  with  her  face  at  that  moment  color 
less,  but  with  her  great  wondrous  eyes  full  of  the  light 
that  came  to  him  over  the  mad  waters.  In  some  way 
in  his  mind  he  at  once  identified  himself,  —  contemned, 
walled  around  all  his  life,  and  now  scorned,  with  the 
insulted  representation,  the  contemned  constituency, 
and  the  abused  freedom  of  speech.  He  was  indignant, 
excited  and  exalted,  —  and  he  was  one  who  would  bear 


A    TRIBUNE    OF    THE    PEOPLE.  245 

any  amount  of  inspiration.  For  a  moment  he  did  not 
hear  his  voice  ;  and  the  next,  it  sounded  to  him  like  the 
voice  of  one  near  him,  ringing  out  clear,  silvery  and 
sonorous,  like  a  trumpet-call.  How  his  few  formulated 
sentences  glowed  and  flashed  !  and  how,  almost  joyously 
in  the  pride  of  his  young,  and  never  before  so  fulh'  real 
ized  strength,  did  he  leap  from  the  last  round,  and  open 
out  his  pinion  for  sustained  flight !  TIow  real  every 
thing  was  to  him,  and  how  palpable  !  How  he  ignited 
everything  he  touched,  and  shed  a  glow  on  all  he 
passed  !  Men  crowded  close  to  him,  and  gave  him  the 
full  might  of  their  lifting,  inspiring  power,  and  bore  him 
onward. 

He  clutched  the  theme, —  the  outrage  upon  the  free 
dom  of  speech,  and  debate,  and  thought,  and  held  it 
up  in  bold  and  striking  lights.  "  And  it  was  done  by 
slavery,  which  had  dethroned  God,  razed  out  the  Deca 
logue,  and  smeared  the  page  with  its  own  Gospel.  It 
fashioned  legislation,  moulded  judgment,  poisoned  the 
sources  of  thought,  till  at  its  command  the  minds  of 
men  warped  and  tortured  the  promise  of  salvation,  to 
the  threat  of  damnation.  It  laid  its  hand  on  our 
mouths  and  commanded  us  to  be  dumb.  It  placed  its 
fingers  on  our  pulses  and  commanded  them  to  stand 
still.  It  turned  the  red-tide  back  upon  the  heart,  which, 
in  its  grasp,  it  commanded  to  grow  cold  and  cease  to 
beat.  But  that  heart  shall  store  its  accumulating  en 
ergies,  until,  with  one  indignant  throb,  it  hurls  this 
silenced  tribune  of  the  people  back  upon  the  floor  of 
Congress,  where,  throb  by  throb,  it  shall  sustain  him, 
and  a  shivering  cry.  a  glad  shout,  shall  hail  this  tri 
umph  of  freedom.  The  capitol  shall  hear  it.  The 


246  THE    POKTRAIT. 

waters  of  the  .yellow  Potomac  shall  catch  it  up,  and,  in 
their  downward  sweep  to  the  sea,  the}'  shall  whisper  to 
the  Great  Sleeper  on  their  banks,  that  the  city  which 
bears  his  name  is  again  worthy  of  it." 

The  rising  of  the  slaves  on  the  crew  of  the  "  Creole  " 
at  sea,  furnished  a  splendid  theme  for  his  masterly 
powers  of  graphic  description. 

At  first,  repeated  bursts  of  applause  interrupted  him, 
but  it  was  soon  discovered  that  these  annoyed  him, 
and  he  was  permitted  to  go  on ;  soon  the  interest  be 
came  so  intense,  that  nobody  thought  of  applause. 
"When  his  voice  finally  ceased,  men  bent  forward  to 
listen,  as  if  it  must  go  on,  and  then  they  looked  into 
each  other's  faces,  and  again  to  the  stand  which  the}r 
saw  was  empt}' ;  then  they  knew  that  the  spell  which 
held  them  was  broken.  They  murmured,  and  then 
shouted,  shout  after  shout,  as  if  the  pent  and  ravished 
feelings  could  find  relief  only  in  shoutings. 

And  Belle,  through  the  whole  flashing  hour,  with  her 
eyes  never  wandering  from  the  young  orator,  and  her 
color  coming  back,  and  the  light  of  her  eyes  deepening, 
and  leaning  forward  in  unconscious  grace  in  her  eager 
ness,  helped  to  cany  him  on ;  and  when  he  sank  back 
from  the  front,  at  the  close,  her  glorified  face  went  down, 
and  was  veiled  from  sight. 

As  he  stepped  back,  Mr.  Giddings  caught  him  in  his 
arms  in  an  eager,  grateful  congratulation.  The  band 
recovered,  and  struck  up,  and  the  enchanted  people 
lingered  to  catch  a  glimpse  of,  and  perhaps  shake  the 
hand  of,  the  young  orator,  who  had  surpassed  their  con 
ceptions  of  fervid  and  sustained  eloquence. 

Then  it  was  remembered  that  he  was  to  defend  Jake, 


A   TRIBUNE    OF   THE    PEOPLE.  247 

and  there  was  some  vague  sort  of  an  idea  that  he 
would  acquit  him,  and  it  was  hoped  he  would, —  and  the 
poor  devil  might  be  innocent  after  all.  What  a  funny 
thing  is  the  people ! 


CHAPTER    XL. 

THE    GLORY    FADES. 

nOW  gloriously  possible  even  heaven  seemed  to 
Fred,  for  the  last  part  of  that  hour.  It  is 
curious  how  the  mind  and  faculties  of  a  man  aroused 
will  act  and  play  when  at  their  best.  While  his  main 
forces  were  concentrated  intensely  upon  his  speech, 
a  score  of  little  imps  of  fancy  were  in  play,  as  they 
always  are,  all  about  and  over  the  field,  —  flashing 
ahead,  and  glancing  at  the  ground ;  backward,  along 
the  track,  and  anon  away  upon  things  having  little  to 
do  with  the  immediate  labor.  And  all  about  sweet  and 
glorious  Belle.  There  was  some  mistake.  He  should 
go  to  her,  and  take  her  in  his  arms  as  his,  and  with 
her  sweet  consent.  Didn't  she  look  all  this  ?  even  that 
she  would  come  to  him,  —  almost !  Dear,  deluding 
imps !  and  as  he  sat  down,  and  then  got  down  on  the 
ground,  he  knew  he  was  on  the  earth  again.  He  felt 
that  his  speech  was  a  triumph  ;  but  what  did  he  care? 
His  cheating  fancies,  with  their  rainbow  glories,  faded 
and  died  in  a  moment,  and  he  was  the  poor  contemned 
wretch  that  arose  an  hour  ago. 

It  is  one  of  man's  delusions  that  a  woman  always 
loves  or  hates,  adheres  to  or  opposes  a  cause,  as  it  is 
represented   by   some   man  whom  she  loves  or  hates, 
(248) 


THE    GLORY    FADES.  249 

worships  or  despises.  It  is  one  of  the  oldest  and  most 
firmly  fixed,  as  it  is  the  most  fallacious  articles  of  the 
man  creed,  that  a  woman  can  never  comprehend  and 
accede  to,  or  deny  a  proposition,  or  appreciate  a  cause 
in  the  abstract.  But  it  was  an  error  that  Fred  did  not 
fall  into  in  reference  to  Belle.  It  was,  of  course, 
her  intense  anxiety  for  the  safety  of  the  drowning  girl 
that  led  her  into  the  icy  river  ;  as  it  was  her  noble  and 
instinctive  womanly  sympathies  for  the  cause  of  free 
dom  and  justice,  that  made  her  lean  from  her  carriage 
and  cheer  him  so  with  the  inspiration  of  her  eyes  and 
manner.  What  did  she,  what  could  she,  care  for  him? 
He  almost  despised  himself,  that  he  could  languish  for 
other  reward  than  the  consciousness  of  doing  his  duty. 
Duty !  what  a  word  was  that  to  a  despairing  lover ; 
what  were  any  words  ?  All  this  ran  through  his  mind, 
as,  surrounded  by  a  crowd  of  admiring  young  men,  he 
was  walking  from  the  stand  to  the  house  of  their  enter 
tainer  near  by,  —  catching  their  words  and  answering 
back  mechanicalhr. 

As  they  entered  the  house,  the  host  came  forward, 
and  taking  him  by  the  arm,  led  him  into  a  parlor,  and 
introduced  him  to  several :  among  others,  to  Mr.  Morris, 
Mrs.  Marbury,  and  Miss  Belle  Morris,  as  she  was  called. 
This  ceremony  called  up  and  aroused  his  pride  to 
almost  hauteur.  Mr.  Morris  started  to  come  forward 
as  if  to  meet  him,  but  evidently  Fred's  manner  of 
dignified  coldness  repelled  him.  Fred  made  the  pro- 
foundest  of  bows  to  the  ladies,  and,  spite  of  his  arctic 
manner,  Maud,  almost  as  beautiful  in  her  way  as  her 
younger  sister,  managed  to  receive  his  hand.  She 
even  ventured  to  congratulate  him  on  his  speech,  but 


250  THE    PORTRAIT. 

his  host  brought  others  to  his  relief,  and  he  made  his 
way  to  other  parts  of  the  room. 

Soon  after,  a  dinner,  more  nearly  a  supper  in  the 
country,  was  announced,  and  upon  reaching  the  spacious 
dining-room,  Fred,  to  his  dismay,  was  conducted  to  a 
seat  near  Mr.  Giddings,  and  between  Maud  and  Belle. 
No  woman  can  comprehend  or  sympathize  with  all  the 
feelings  of  Fred  in  this  position.  She  cannot  compre 
hend  why  every  man  is  not  a  gentleman,  and  why  he 
should  not,  under  all  circumstances,  be  at  his  ease  with 
ladies.  She  knows  that  he  will  always  receive  proper 
consideration,  and  why  her  presence  can  ever  embar 
rass  him,  she  is  unable  to  understand.  But  a  man  of 
quick  and  nice  sensibilities  will  fully  appreciate  his 
position.  Here  was  the  one  woman  of  all  the  world,  who 
was  the  all  to  him,  who  shared  the  common  preju 
dice  against  him,  to  whom  he  had  declared  his  love, 
and  of  whom  had  abjectly  begged  as  a  boon  the  bare 
favor  of  a  cold  recognition  of  his  existence,  and  it  had 
been  refused.  Here  now  was  he,  the  scorned  lover, 
as  a  special  mark  of  distinction,  placed  by  her  side. 
With  a  few  commonplace  words  he  took  his  seat,  and 
under  the  pressure  of  a  crowded  table,  as  near  as  the 
seats  would  permit.  So  abject  had  he  become  in  his 
own  esteem,  that,  spite  of  himself,  he  was  conscious  of 
the  charm  of  her  presence,  which  he  seemed  to  inhale 
as  a  subtle  and  entrancing  aroma ;  all  the  time, 
too,  he  was  conscious  that  he  was  closely  observed  by 
Maud,  who  with  womanly  tact  was  making  such  diversion 
as  she  might  in  his  favor.  Had  he  exercised  the  least 
perception,  which,  as  we  see,  he  never  did  where  Belle 
was  concerned,  he  would  in  a  moment  have  discovered,  by 


THE    GLORY    FADES.  251 

Belle's  look  and  manner,  that  the  position  was  quite  as 
embarrassing  to  her.  Indeed,  her  face  indicated  not 
embarrassment,  but  anxiety,  if  not  pain.  The  glow 
had  gone  out  of  it,  and  the  wondrous  light  of  her 
eyes  had  died  in  them  ;.  her  air  was  not  so  much  that 
of  coldness,  as  of  passive  resignation.  But  Fred  was  in 
no  mood  to  perceive  or  know  anything.  Humiliated 
and  abased,  he  was  thoroughly  wretched,  as  must  have 
been  shown  by  his  countenance  and  the  tone  of  his 
voice.  Men  were  staring  at  him,  and  calling  to  and 
at  him,  and  he  was,  in  a  dim,  confused,  miserable  way, 
trying  to  be  interested  in  the  complimentary  remarks 
which  he  did  not  hear,  and  toying  with  food  which 
he  could  not  eat.  Belle  made  no  effort  to  talk.  Once 
or  twice  her  hand  was  raised  to  a  bunch  of  beautiful 
half-blown  moss  rose-buds,  fastened  over  the  unimagin 
able  loveliness  of  her  bosom,  and  once  she  answered 
her  father,  who  sat  next  her. 

The}-  had  been  a  few  moments  at  the  table,  when 
word  was  brought  Fred  that  a  gentleman  outside 
much  wanted  to  see  him  for  a  moment ;  and  although 
many  protested,  yet,  with  a  word  to  the  host,  Fred 
arose  and  went  out  ;  a  few  minutes,  and  a  note  was 
sent  from  him  to  Mr.  Giddings,  who  looked  at  it  in 
surprise,  and  then  read  it  out : 

"My  DEAR  MR.  GIDDINGS:  —  I  am  suddenly  called 
to  Canfield,  and  go  at  once.  I  will  try  to  join  you  at 
Warren  to-morrow.  Make  1113-  excuse  to  the  host. 

"  FRED." 

The  call  was  a  relief  to  Fred  ;  he  took  his  place  with 


252  THE    PORTRAIT. 

alacrity  in  the  carriage,  glad  to  fly  even  from  Belle, 
and  drove  away  in  as  wretched  a  frame  of  mind  as  he 
had  ever  known. 

Had  he  returned  to  the  table,  he  would  have  found 
that  bnnch  of  beautiful  rose-buds  on  his  plate.  It  never 
resumed  its  place,  and  probably  not  more  than  one  knew 
its  final  fate. 


CHAPTER    XLL 

BELLE. 

IT  is  a  sufficiently  difficult  task  to  sketch  with  graphic 
accurac}*  the  character  of  a  man  whose  traits  are 
pronounced,  whose  characteristics  are  marked,  and  the 
springs  and  workings  of  whose  mind  are  often  obvious, 
—  of  a  man  who  is  permitted  to  speak  and  act  directly 
as  a  primaiy  and  controlling  force,  and  manifests  him 
self  more  or  less  openly. 

Who  shall  confidently  attempt  the  character  of 
woman,  the  lines  of  which  arc  often  so  delicately  traced 
as  to  be  invisible  to  the  03-0  of  a  man,  and  which  may 
nevertheless  control?  Who  shall  estimate  her  emo 
tional  nature,  and  the  balancing  or  controlling  power 
of  her  affections  ?  Who  can  tell  where  the  springs  of 
thought  or  sources  of  impulse  lie,  and  how  or  why  or 
when  either  may  act,  and  how  either  will  influence  the 
other,  or  what  shall  determine  or  control  their  action  ? 
and  what  the  result  of  both  acting  together.  Accus 
tomed  to  act  through  others,  and  effect  by  indirect 
means,  becoming  used  to  not  having  her  way,  until 
the  way  itself  is  not  obvious  ;  denied  all  play  of  ambi 
tion,  until  its  possession  is  deemed  unwomanly  ;  per 
mitted  only  to  persuade,  until  it  is  a  crime  to  argue, 
and  treason  to  command  ;  taught  that  her  only  strength 
(253) 


254  THE    PORTRAIT. 

is  in  absolute  weakness,  her  greatest  power  in  abject 
submission,  that  her  true  independence  is  helpless  sub 
jection,  and  her  sole  possession  is  to  be  the  absolute 
property  of  another,  her  real  empire  servitude,  and  her 
crowning  achievement  constant  self-sacrifice  ;  that  she  is 
aggregated  negatives, —  is  not  to  do,  is  not  to  have,  is 
not  to  be,  is  not  to  go,  is  not  to  see,  is  not  to  hear,  to 
speak,  or  think,  or  know,  and  that  her  highest  acquire 
ment  is  to  become  nobody  and  accomplish  nothing,  and 
that  in  this  she  can  alone  occupy  and  fill  her  sphere. 
When  the  delicacy  of  her  organization  is  remembered,  it 
is  apparent  that  her  character  may  present  difficulties 
that  the  ordinary  artist,  if  he  apprehend  them,  might 
hesitate  to  attempt.  I  might  protest  against  these  con 
ditions  which  in  all  of  the  ages  of  man  have  changed 
the  nature  of  woman  to  un-nature,  but  it  would  in  no 
waj*  help  me  to  sketch  the  beautiful  Belle. 

It  has  been  already  mentioned,  that  Belle,  reared  in  the 
atmosphere  of  the  highest  culture  and  refinement,  from 
the  singular  currents  of  her  existence,  and  the  tenden 
cies  of  the  lighter  elements  of  her  nature,  had  floated 
dreamily  in  the  sheltered  and  colorless  streams  of  a  half- 
nun  life,  touched  and  tinged  alone  with  the  ecstacies 
of  a  devotee,  and  only  disturbed  at  times  by  the  vague 
stir  of  the  elements  of  a  strong  rich  nature,  tying 
so  deep  that  their  very  existence  was  unsuspected.  Her 
mystical,  shadow}- association  with  an  imaginative youtli, 
with  whom  real  marriage  was  impossible,  whose  clear 
est  perceptions  took  the  form  of  misty  visions,  whose 
highest  exaltations  were  feeble  ecstacies,  whose  powers 
were  too  weak  for  fanaticism,  and  whose  only  hope 
and  aspiration  was  languishing  for  the  company  of  the 


BELLE.  255 

angels.  That  the  accepted  and  constantly  acted  .upon 
idea  on  her  part  that  their  union  remained  in  full,  binding, 
present  force,  and  that  their  actual  association  was  but 
temporarily  suspended,  had  singularly  isolated  Belle 
even  in  the  society  of  her  equals,  among  whom  she  had 
freely  mingled  for  the  last  four  or  live  years.  She 
could  not  fail  of  being  very  attractive  to  gentlemen,  and 
frankly  admitted  the  pleasure  derived  from  their  society. 
She  was  not  now  ascetic  or  prudish.  She  only  and 
always  conducted  herself  with  the  innate,  unstudied, 
and  exalted  propriety  of  a  devoted  wife  in  the  absence 
of  her  husband,  and  from  this  course  she  had  in  110 
instance  departed.  Gentlemen  unexceptionable,  with 
the  profoundcst  admiration,  would  have  approached  her 
as  possible  lovers,  but  had  never  been  able  to  do  so. 
Her  father  had  playfully  chided  her  for  her  devotion  to 
a  shadow,  and  sometimes  had  seriously  combated  her 
notions  ;  while  Maud,  after  pursuing  her  through  every 
shade  of  badinage,  had  closed  the  light  campaign  with 
the  declaration  —  half  a  wish  and  half  a  prophecy  — 
that  she  would  some  day  fall  in  love  ;  —  it  would  not 
come  through  liking,  or  by  any  of  the  channels  of 
growth,  but  she  would  fall  into  it,  and  under  the  in 
spiring  logic  of  a  lover  new  light  would  be  thrown  on 
this  phantasm.  To  which  the  laughing  Belle  answered 
that  she  always  avoided  precipices,  and  even  in  her 
romping  days  never  had  a  tendency  to  climb.  Maud 
ran  and  pinched  her  cheek,  and  then  kissed  her  with, 
"  We  shall  see."  But  with  the  hopeful  watchfulness 
of  three  or  four  years,  she  had  not  seen. 

Belle's  vision  of  the  portrait  stepping  from  its  frame, 
is  perhaps  remembered.     The  impression  so  singularly 


256  THE    PORTRAIT. 

produced  was  very  deep.  It  was  not  only  deepened, 
but  became  bewildering  ;  when,  instead  of  its  proving  a 
mere  optical  illusion,  she  found,  when  thrown  into 
Fred's  immediate  presence,  that  under  the  varying 
lights,  change  of  attitude  and  play  of  expression,  his 
resemblance  in  feature,  from  general  effect  to  the 
minutest  lines,  seemed  to  her  memory,  and  excited  im 
agination,  perfect ;  and  then,  like  an  electric  shock, 
came  the  thought  that  here  was  the  mysterious  solution 
of  an  old  mystery,  a  new  link  in  the  chain  of  events, 
which  made  up  a  story  of  tragic  love,  that  had  fixed 
itself  in  her  memory  as  tenaciously  as  if  the  events  of 
it  had  occurred  under  her  eyes.  As  she  looked,  that 
thought  grew  to  belief,  and  passed  at  once  into  the 
form  of  enduring  conviction. 

Then  her  mind,  quickened  by  this  assurance,  recalled 
the  curious  name  which  seemed  familiar  to  Fred,  as 
well  as  the  other  coincidences  of  which  he  thought  he 
must  have  dreamed.  She  felt  and  knew  that  she  was 
strongly  drawn  to  him  • —  almost  irresistibty  —  and  that 
she  thought  him  the  handsomest,  —  no,  not  that  —  she 
didn't  like  the  word  — but  something  brave,  strong, 
and  noble  —  man  she  had  ever  seen.  Then  there  was 
the  mystery  of  his  birth.  If  not  this  child,  who  was 
he  ?  It  was  this  mystery,  and  her  interest  in  the  story 
which  must  be  his,  that  attracted  her  to  him,  of  course. 
But  then  he  certainly  had  beautiful  eyes,  a  deep,  rich, 
manly  voice,  and  the  same  silky  black  siderwhfskers  as 
the  portrait,  and  the  same  wilful,  finely-formed  mouth  5  — =• 
he  must  be  the  son. 

As  to  the  mistake  of  that  night  —  but  so  pure  was 
she  in  heart  and  soul  that  her  purity  was  not  alarmed  — 


BELLE.  257 

she  did  not  blame  him  ;  of  course  he  was  asleep,  was 
dreaming  of  her.  How  funny  that  was !  and  she  was 
careless ;  but  then  he  knew  how  it  happened.  She 
knew  the  adventure  was  sacred  in  his  mind.  It  was  a 
rude  shock  to  her  delicacy  ;  she  could  hardly  think  of 
it,  and  it  must  have  shocked  him  as  much. 

Would  he  mention  it  in  the  morning?  Was  she 
afraid  he  would?  Did  she  wish  that  he  would  —  it  was 
not  necessary  ;  she  thought  he  would  not,  —  but  then  men 
are  queer  sometimes  ;  she  wondered  how  he  would  look 
by  daylight.  Of  course  she  was  not  quite  certain  of 
his  looks.  Then  he  came  in,  and  she  saw  by  his  look 
that  he  attached  much  gravit}'  to  the  occurrence,  and 
it  shocked  her  ;  she  could  not  face  him  when  he  spoke. 
But  his  words,  —  that  he  dreamed  of  her,  and  that  she 
was  the  only  woman  for  whom  he  would  gladly  die ! 
How  these  thrilled  !  That  was  not  gallantly.  The  quick 
ened  blood  came  to  her  face,  and  when  she  turned 
around  he  had  gone.  lie  was  somehow  disturbed, 
and  she  could  not  quite  say  to  him  what  she  would. 
No  matter ;  that  was  got  along  with  now.  A  seat 
•was  offered  her  that  morning,  and  though  she  would 
much  prefer  to  ride  with  Martha  and  Fred,  yet,  as  there 
was  but  one  seat  in  their  sleigh,  she  took  the  one  offered. 
Then  came  the  accident  and  rescue.  Belle  thought  of 
and  saw  only  Fred.  She  was  not  frightened  ;  the  world 
swam  a  little  when  he  disappeared,  but  then  she  knew 
he  would  come  out,  and  she  could  not  help  rushing  in 
to  help  him.  How  glad  she  was  that  the  poor  little 
maiden  was  saved,  and  mainly  because  Fred  saved  her  ! 
How  like  a  river-god  he  looked,  coining  out  of  the 
water  !  How  glad  she  was  when  he  praised  her ! 
17 


258  THE   PORTRAIT. 

did  help  bring  the  girl  to,  but  Fred  told  her  what  to  do. 
Then  she  recalled  his  conduct  when  Martha's  brother 
was  sick.  lie  was  gone  a  good  while  with  Martha  that 
afternoon,  and  she  was  very  glad  when  he  came,  and 
was  a  little  afraid  to  meet  him  ;  he  took  her  hand  in 
both  his,  and  pressed  his  cheek  and  the  side  of  his  face 
to  it,  and  left  tears  upon  it ;  what  did  it  mean  ?  Did  ho 
love  her  ?  Was  this  love,  a  man's  love  ?  a  real,  splendid, 
heroic  man's  love,  and  for  her,  —  Belle  ?  What  a 
heaven  !  How  she  choked,  and  how  her  heart  throbbed  ; 
could  it  be  love,  and  did  she  feel  the  same  way  to  him? 
Of  course,  when  he  turned  away  from  her  the  tears 
dropped  from  her  eyes  ;  but  then  she  was  a  woman. 
She  had  never  felt  such  a  strange,  sweet,  exquisite 
thrill.  How  warm  and  clinging  his  hands  were  !  Was 
it  love?  Surcby,  this  was  not  all  interest  in  him,  because 
he  must  be  the  son  of  her  friend  Mrs.  D'Arlon.  But 
then,  —  it  could  not  be;  people  could  not  fall  in  love 
so  suddenly  as  this.  Besides,  she  was  a  married 
woman,  and  a  woman  with  a  husband  could  never  fall 
in  love,  or  —  was  it  something  —  that  people  sometimes 
called  love?  It  was  not  that,  she  knew.  Something 
of  fear,  shame,  apprehension  of  guilt  must  come  with 
that.  Then  she  had  watched  Fred,  been  near  him, 
heard  his  voice,  seen  the  light  in  his  ej'es,  and  found 
somehow  that  she  did  not  like  to  meet  his  gaze,  and  IK; 
was  often  turning  to  look  at  her,  and  that  did  not 
offend  her. 

She  thought  of  his  birth,  —  what  if  she  was  mistaken, 
what  if  the  general  impression  of  him  was  true?  II; 
could  not  matter  to  her,  it  should  not  to  anybod}'.  If 
anything,  he  was  entitled  to  the  more  credit  for  the 


BELLE.  259 

position  he  had  gained  alone,  and  in  spite  of  it.  Of 
course  he  would  be  a  great  man,  and  would  many 
somebody.  Would  he?  Xot  if — not  if — of  course 
he  did  not  love  her.  He  had  no  business  to  love  her  ; 
she  was  a  married  woman,  and  he  knew  it.  But  he  did 
not  know  that  seriously  he  must  not  love  her  as  men 
sometimes  loved  women  they  wished  to  marry.  Pshaw  ! 
what  a  silly  girl  she  was  !  What  had  come  over  her? 
She  never  had  such  thoughts  before  ;  but  then  it  was  a 
whim  —  a  fancy  —  and  would  pass.  She  found  that 
she  did  not  want  to  talk  about  him  to  Martha  ;  Martha 
would  suspect  something.  So  it  ran  on  more  and 
deeper  ;  and  Fred  left,  and  could  not  speak  when  he 
went.  She  wondered  if  he  would  write.  Of  course 
not  to  her ;  but  when  his  letter  came,  she  was  not 
much  surprised,  and  not  at  all  frightened. 

Somehow,  the  fierce  and  stormy  way  in  which  he  told 
his  love  exhilarated,  aroused,  and  almost  intoxicated 
her,  and  for  a  moment  seemed  to  carry  her  to  the 
inner  heavens  —  not  the  home  of  abstract,  celestial, 
angelic,  of  cold,  colorless  bliss  —  but  a  heaven  like  the 
earth  transfigured  and  glorified,  with  a  thousand  suns 
and  endless  flowers,  and  warmth,  and  glad  and  joy 
ous  singing,  happy  things.  This  was  love  —  passion 
ate,  intense,  strong  — but  oh,  exquisitely  sweet  and 
beautiful !  Then  came  the  memory  of  Edward  ;  she 
who,  as  his  wife,  was  so  loved,  and  was  glad  and 
happy  for  it,  — she,  oh,  horror !  felt  no  guilt  and  no 
shame,  no  trembling,  no  possible  danger,  but  thrilling 
gladness.  No,  this  could  not  be  love,  —  it  —  it  must  be 
that  alluring  fascination  which  she  had  heard  that  some 
men  could  throw  about  some  women,  which  disarmed 


260  THE    PORTRAIT. 

fear,  and  changed  the  poor  wretched  woman's  nature. 
What  if  this  strong  and  fascinating  man  should  insist 
on  her  loving  him  with  what  people  would  call  a  mar 
riage?  Then  she  turned  and  found  exquisite  consola 
tion  in  the  last  two  or  three  lines  of  his  letter.  He 
only  wanted  to  worship  as  the  young  barbarian  Avoulcl 
worship  his  star  ;  and  only  wanted  that  the  star  should 
know.  Was  there  ever  anything  so  beautiful,  yet 
exquisitely  touching  ?  How  unhappy  he  was,  and  why 
might  he  not  love  her?  And  why  might  she  not  joy  in 
knowing  that  he  did?  But  —  but  —  could  a  married 
woman  innocently  be  the  object  of  such  worship?  —  not 
of  soul  worship,  soul  love  ?  Why  not  ?  She  distrusted  and 
doubted,  as  well  she  might.  Did  not  this  come  wholly 
between  her  and  the  memory  of  Edward  ;  between  her 
and  him  in  heaven  ;  transforming  heaven,  in  which 
he  was,  only  to  an  unregretted  mcmor}',  an  uncher- 
ished  dream?  True,  her  form  would  remain  pure,  but 
her  heart  and  soul  —  oh,  blessed  heaven,  and  all  its 
hopes  and  joys,  were  never  so  shadowy  and  vague,  so 
poor  and  filmy  —  were  not  heart  and  soul  lost  already  ? 
Had  she  erred  in  thought  or  dream?  She  could  not 
feel  that  she  had,  and  she  felt  that  she  ought  to  be 
sensible  of  guilt.  Was  there  adultery  of  the  spirit? 
Might  they  not  commune  with  no  thought  of  earth? 
She  knelt  and  prayed  with  the  deep,  sweet,  hopeful 
fervor  and  restful  faith  of  the  pure  in  heart,  soul  and 
thought. 


CHAPTER   XLII. 

BELLE'S  THEORY. 

TTNDEE,  the  inspiration  of  her  love,  whatever  she 
^  may  have  called  it,  her  mind,  naturally  strong 
and  quick,  and  now  doubly  so  in  everything  that  had 
reference  to  Fred,  and  the  conceded  mystery  of  his 
birth,  was,  as  we  see,  suggestive  and  inventive.  The 
thought,  of  course,  occurred  to  communicate  her  belief 
and  its  reasons  to  him,  as  the  one  most  interested,  and 
whose  energy,  knowledge  and  sagacity  would  be  strong 
allies  in  an  enterprise  of  his  own.  But  after  all  it 
might  prove  that  she  was  mistaken,  and  then,  how 
cruel  to  him,  who  had  suffered  so  much  !  She  had  only 
a  portrait  which  she  had  not  seen  for  years,  a  story,  the 
names,  places  and  dates  of  which  she  had  only  a  vague 
idea  of.  Besides,  deep  in  her  woman's  heart  was  the 
wish,  strong  as  life,  and  which  might  lead  her  to  con 
front  death  itself,  to  do  this  thing  for  him,  —  to  restore 
him,  crowned  with  his  birthright,  and  let  him  owe  her 
for  it.  Oh,  wMt  exquisite  luxury  !  Arid  these  thoughts 
and  voices  •  inmost  heart  —  this  struggle  with  her 

soul  —  mu:          be  stilled  ;  perhaps  she  might  be  mis 
taken  even  in  her  duty  to  the  dead,  and  her  estimate 
of  her  real  relations.     Oh,  what  a  surprise  to  Fred  it 
(261) 


262  TJIE    PORTRAIT. 

would  be  !  and  what  would  she  not  deserve  at  his 
hands  ? 

Nor  would  she  communicate  to  Fred's  mother,  then  in, 
or  near,  Boston.  She  would  invent  a  pretext,  and  ask 
her  to  send  her  the  requisite  dates  and  names,  places, 
and  so  forth,  and  she  would  at  once  enter  personally 
upon  the  investigation.  She  was  exhilarated  at  the 
thought  of  travelling,  of  going  out  and  of  attempting 
this  adventure,  and  was  amazed  at  the  energy  which 
the  thought  called  up. 

She  wrote  to  Mrs.  D'Arlon,  and  arranged  to  return 
home.  On  her  arrival  there,  she  found  the  desired 
answer.  In  substance,  Mrs.  D'Arlon  stated  that  her 
husband,  in  the  month  of  September  of  1821,  with  their 
infant  son,  then  about  two  years  and  a  half  old,  left 
Charleston  to  go  into  Virginia.  He  travelled  in  his 
own  carriage,  with  two  servants,  and  had  with  him  a 
large  sum  of  money  ;  that  in  the  mountains  of  North 
Carolina,  a  few  miles  west  of  Linvill,  in  attempting  to 
pass  a  swollen  stream,  his  coachman  was  drowned,  his 
baggage  and  money  lost,  and  himself  fatally  hurt.  His 
servant,  with  some  assistance,  rescued  him  and  their 
son,  and  he  was  taken  to  a  sort  of  tavern  in  that  wild  re 
gion,  kept  by  a  man  of  the  name  of  Jarvis  Bibb,  where 
he  soon  after  died.  The  son,  Ethfred,  was  placed  with 
a  poor  man  in  the  neighborhood  named  Sam  Warren, 
a  cousin  or  nephew  of  Bibb's,  but  was  taken  sick  soon 
after,  and  also  died.  The  servant  disappeared,  and  had 
never  been  heard  of  since.  She,  the  writer,  was  absent 
in  Cuba,  prostrated  with  illness,  and  months  elapsed 
before  she,  or  any  of  her  friends,  had  learned  the  fate 
of  her  husband.  When  she  finally  visited  the  region, 


BELLE  S    THEORY.  263 

to  remove  the  remains  of  her  clear  ones,  all  these  mat 
ters  were  full}-  confirmed  to  her.  She  had  understood 
from  her  husband,  that  a  little  time  before  his  marriage 
he  had  travelled  over  this  road,  and  Bibb  told  her  that 
he  spent  a  few  days  at  his  place,  hunting  in  the  wild 
region,  some  three  }-ears  before  the  fatal  accident.  In 
the  face  of  this  statement,  Belle,  woman-like,  believed 
that  Ethfred  and  Fred  were  the  same  ;  that  possibly 
the  money  was  not  lost,  and  that  it  might  furnish 
inducement  to  Bibb  to  change  his  name,  and  so  forth. 
At  any  rate  she  would  go  to  North  Carolina,  and  if 
Bibb  and  Warren  were  there,  she  was  mistaken,  and 
would  abandon  the  quest,  unless,  —  well,  she  didn't 
cany  out  the  chain.  Her  father  was  still  absent,  and 
she  at  once  went  to  Philadelphia,  and  took  Maud  and 
her  husband  into  her  confidence. 

"  Oh,  Belle  !  Belle  !  Belle  !  "  exclaimed  Maud,  "  what 
did  I  tell  you?  This  is  the  disguised  young  prince,  is 
it,  who  comes  to  break  the  spell  and  liberate  the  prin 
cess  ?  What  did  I  tell  you  ?  " 

"  Maud,  you  may  shake  your  head,  and  look  wise, 
and  laugh  as  much  as  you  please  ;  I  am  decidedly  in 
earnest  in  this." 

"  So  I  see  ;  and  as  decidedly  in  love  with  this  hand 
some  young  lawyer  as  any  Miss  of  fifteen.  How 
romantic  !  How  exquisite  it  is  !  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! ' 

At  first,  Marbnry  and  Maud  were  little  inclined  to 
give  heed  to  her  hypothesis,  but  soon  found  that  she 
was  inflexibly  determined  to  pursue  the  enterprise.  At 
Marbury's  suggestion,  an  experienced  detective  was 
called,  who,  under  the  inspiration  of  a  large  fee 
not  unpleasant  service,  did  sec  much  in  the  facts  sub- 


264  THE    PORTRAIT. 

mitted,  and  declared  that  Belle  was  a  born  detective. 
Belle  determined  to  proceed  at  once  to  North  Carolina 
with  the  detective,  and  of  course  was  attended  by  Mar- 
bury.  They  had  little  difficulty  in  finding  the  locality, 
still  wild  and  thinly  inhabited.  Some  of  the  people 
remembered  the  circumstances  for  which  the}'  inquired. 
The  sum  of  the  information  was,  that  D'Arlon  died  of 
injuries  occasioned  by  the  upsetting  of  his  carriage, 
four  or  live  days  after  that  occurrence,  at  Bibb's,  who 
did  not  maintain  a  good  reputation.  That  the  child 
(some  thought  that  it  was  a  girl,  and  some  that  it  was 
a  boy)  was  taken  to  Warren's,  as  Bibb's  wife  was 
dead,  and  died  soon  after  ;  although  there  was  a  story 
that  it  was  Warren's  little  girl  that  died.  Nobody 
remembered  the  name  of  the  child.  Bibb  had  a  sister, 
named  Sail}*,  who  was  away  at  the  time.  The  servant 
disappeared  the  day  after  the  accident,  and  there  were 
stories  that  Bibb  made  way  with  him,  and  some  of  the 
money,  and  that  the  winter  following  he  and  his  sister, 
and  the  Warren's,  packed  off  for  Tennessee,  and  had 
never  been  heard  of  since.  All  this  strongly  confirmed 
the  general  outline  of  Belle's  theory.  Descriptions  of 
Bibb  and  his  sister,  and  the  Warrens,  were  taken  with 
as  much  accuracy  as  possible,  and  the  party  returned 
directly  to  Ohio,  where  they  found  Belle's  father,  and 
where  they  were  soon  joined  by  Maud  and  her  children. 
The  next  point  was  to  identify  Bibb  with  Green,  or 
Warren  with  Warden,  and  inquiries  were  quietly  made 
about  Mantua,  with  no  result  save  the  confirmed  mys 
tery  of  Fred's  birth  and  person,  and  something  of  a 
paper  executed  before  Esquire  Ladd.  Then  it  was 
resolved  to  pursue  Sam  Warden,  who  was  necessarily 


BELLE'S  THEORY.  265 

Warren,  and  also  trace  out  the  fortunes  and  whereabouts 
of  John  Green  and  Sally.  Soon  after  their  return  from 
North  Carolina  the  murder  of  Olncy  was  committed,  fol 
lowed  by  the  arrest  of  Jake  Green.  The  detective  had  an 
interview  with  Jake,  who  was  reticent,  but  informed 
him  that  his  father  and  aunt  were  at  Xauvoo,  and  he 
believed  Warden  was  with  Jones  in  Missouri.  Nothing 
could  be  got  out  of  him,  if  lie  remembered  anything, 
as  to  the  matters  of  immediate  inquiry;  and  yet  it 
seemed,  from  what  he  did  say,  that  his  father  had 
moved  several  times.  Belle,  herself,  at  her  own  sug 
gestion,  had  written  the  note  to  Fred  which  called  him 
to  Jake's  side,  and  Marbury  copied  and  mailed  it.  The 
enthusiastic  and  romantic  girl  was  full  of  the  generous 
confidence  that  Fred  at  once,  without  fee  or  its  hope, 
would  magnanimously  rush  to  the  defence  of  his  old 
enemy,  and  the  son  of  the  man  who,  as  she  believed, 
had  done  him  the  greatest  wrong  — had  perhaps  mur 
dered  his  father  —  and  how  wonderful  that  would  be  ! 
The  inquiry  in  North  Carolina  had  shown  that  her 
conjectures  as  to  Fred  might  be  possible,  unless, 
indeed,  he  may  have  been  Sally's  son,  which  seemed 
improbable  under  the  light  of  the  ascertained  facts. 
Warren  had  a  child,  which,  with  the  Darlon  or  D'Arlou 
child,  were  the  only  ones  known.  If  Sally  had  one,  then 
there  were  three,  and  one  only  had  died,  which  may 
have  been  Warren's  ;  and  there  was  no  rumor  in  t 
neighborhood  that  Sally,  whom  her  brother  was 
to  have  ill  used  in  some  matter  of  their  father's  prop 
erty,  had  ever  had  a  child.  Yet  this  was  possible,  a, 
it  had  been  suggested,  after  inquiries  in  Mantua,  tl 
it  was  doubtful  whether  the  Wardens  had  ever  had  a 


266  THE    PORTRAIT. 

cliikl  as  old  as  Fred  ;  they  may  have  taken  Sally's,  and 
the  fact  that  Bibb  sent  the  Darlon  child  to'  them, 
seemed  to  furnish  some  shadow  for  this  also. 

In  the  latter  part  of  March,  Belle,  now  accompanied 
b}*  her  father  and  the  detective,  started  for  St.  Louis, 
intending  to  go  to  Nauvoo,  while  a  trust}'  man  also 
went  with  them,  who  was  to  hunt  up  Sam  Warden,  and 
secure  his  return  to  Ohio  if  possible. 

All  that  was  learned  at  Nauvoo  was  the  death  of 
John  Green,  and  that  Sally  had  a  month  before  started 
east,  intending,  it  was  said,  to  return  to  Mantua.  She 
was  traced  to  the  river ;  but  whether  she  took  a  boat 
down,  or  what  became  of  her,  they  could  not  ascertain. 
No  result  attended  the  inquiries  of  the  detective  con-- 
corning  the  writing  executed  b}'  Green  in  Mantua.  lie 
found  many  old  acquaintances  at  Nauvoo,  prominent 
men  among  the  Mormons,  but  no  one  seemed  to  have 
heard  of  it.  A  little  depressed,  but  with  her  faith  in 
no  wise  shaken,  Belle  returned  home,  not  without  the 
hope  of  finding  Sally  at  Mantua,  and  to  await  news  of 
Sam  Warden.  All  that  was  known  and  rumored  about 
Mantua  had  been  carefulty  collected  and  collated  ;  and 
notwithstanding  Sam  Warden  had  bound  Fred  to  John 
Green  as  his  son,  Belle  had  contended  that  this  was 
more  than  met  b}T  Green's  own  assertion  that  he  was 
of  his  own  blood,  —  Sally's  child,  in  short ;  and  that  it 
was  very  plain  to  her  that  Sally  never  had  a  child.  It; 
was  true,  of  course,  that  Sail}'  had  seemed  very  devoted 
to  Fred  ;  but  then,  any  woman  would  love  him  in  a  moth 
erly  way  when  he  was  small.  Man}'  of  the  Mormons 
remembered  Fred  at  Kirtland,  where  the  impression 
was  that  he  was  a  sou  of  Sally  by  some  Southern  gen- 


BELLE'S  THEORY.  267 

tleman  ;  and  it  was  understood  among  them  that  Sally 
was  a  party  to  his  escape,  which  was  inconsistent  with 
her  being  his  mother.  Why  did  she  not  keep  him,  or 
wh}'  not  go  with  him? 

Esquire  Ladd  had  told  all  he  knew  of  the  paper 
acknowledged  before  him.  It  was  a  lengthy,  closely- 
written  document  of  scyeral  pages,  of  which  he  knew 
nothing,  save  that  it  bore  the  mark  of  Green  and  his 
own  signature  as  a  witness  and  justice  ;  he  could  not 
remember  that  Smith  or  Rigdon  signed  it. 

What  was  this  writing?  It  undoubtedly  was  the 
written  history  of  Green's  life,  and  as  undoubtedly  con 
tained  the  story  of  Fred  and  his  father's  fate.  So  Belle 
claimed.  The  descriptions  of  Green  and  Bibb  coin 
cided  ;  Bibb's  sister's  name  was  Sally,  and  Warden's 
name  was  Sam.  Of  course,  if  they  removed  from  North 
Carolina  for  any  crime  of  Bibb's,  their  names  would  be 
changed  ;  they  might  go  to  many  places  and  change 
many  times.  Green  had  probably  made  a  confession 
to  the  Prophet,  and  this  placed  him  and  his  money  in 
Smith's  power.  The  Mormons  would  be  likely  to  want 
to  keep  and  train  Fred  in  their  faith  and  wa}~s,  for  fear 
he  might  himself,  in  time,  discover  his  birth  and  de 
mand  his  rights.  lu  this  opinion  the  detectives  and  Mr. 
Morris  concurred.  It  was  strengthened  by  the  account 
of  the  Mormons,  that  Green  was  very  poor,  became 
crazA*,  and  was  kept  in  confinement,  and  died  (here. 
From  an  examination  of  the  land  records  of  Portage 
county,  it  was  ascertained  that  at  the  time  of  his  conver 
sion  he  was  an  extensive  landowner,  and  that  soon  after 
he  had  sold  all  his  real  estate.  Thus  the  case  stood, 
when  Belle  returned  home.  Not  all  at  once,  nor  by  any 


268  THE    PORTRAIT. 

continuous  argumentation,  had  Belle's  conclusions  been 
reached,  nor  could  she  tell  how  or  where  the  various 
elements  and  processes  of  it  had  taken  form.  Nor  had 
she  reached  them  unaided ;  numerous  and  repeated 
discussions  and  arguments  had  been  holden  upon  every 
fact,  incident,  and  rumor  connected  with  the  case, 
from  which  her  mind,  and  those  of  her  assistants,  had 
outlined  the  final  course  of  thought,  till  what  seemed 
likely  and  probable  to  others,  were  settled  convictions - 
with  her. 

She  returned  to  hear  the  rumors  of  mysterious  papers 
found  on  the  person  of  Jake,  for  which  he  had  probably 
murdered  Olncy,  and  which  might  prove  to  be  the  writ 
ings  acknowledged  by  Green.  Thc}r  all  looked  forward 
to  the  trial  of  Jake  as  an  event  that  might  throw  im 
portant  light  upon  the  mj-stery,  perhaps  clear  it  all  up. 
To  Belle,  there  was  beautiful  and  retributive  justice  in 
Fred's  being  thrown  into  such  an  important  position  in 
reference  to  the  case ;  he  was  actually  to  defend  Jake 
as  his  counsel.  Vagucl}',  the  dim  and  wondrously 
fascinating  outline  of  a  dramatic,  almost  poetic  ro 
mance  was  dawning  upon  her  woman's  vision,  in  which 
she,  too,  was  deeply  involved.  Was  she  to  unravel  it,  to 
be  in  some  way  a  sort  of  heroine  in  it?  How  sweet  and 
entrancing  the  fancy  was  to  her,  —  too  exquisitely  sweet 
and  delicious  to  ever  be  more  than  a  dream. 

Wansor,  after  ineffective  pumpings  of  the  truculent 
and  sealed-up  Jake,  now  under  the  advice  of  counsel, 
made  advances  to  the  prosecuting  officer,  who  finally 
found,  as  he  thought,  that  the  shrewd  Wansor  had 
useful  information  for  which  he  might  exchange  a  secret 
of  State,  not  to  be  divulged  till  after  the  trial. 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

BELLE   ARGUES   HER   CASE  WITH  MAUD,  AND   IS  WORSTED. 

OH,  Belle,  what  a  marvel  you  have  become  !  I  look 
upon  you  with  perfect  amazement!  You,  my 
dreamy,  mystical,  romantic  sister,  who  looked  upon  all 
men  as  so  many  big  brothers,  to  be  believed  in,  with 
never  a  lover  among  them  all,  —  here  you  are  a  perfect 
heroine,  —  making  long  and  dangerous  journeys  in  the 
winter,  and  leading  and  managing  men  as  if  they  were 
so  many  little  boys." 

This  conversation  was  had  the  first  night  after  Belle's 
return  from  the  West,  and  after  she  had  recounted  the 
particulars  of  her  journcj',  and  Maud  was  now  sitting 
at  her  feet. 

"And,  Maudy  dear,  I'm  a  wonder  to  myself;  I  won 
der  at  my  strength  and  courage  and  energy.  Oh, 
I've  dreamed  all  my  life  till  now,  and  how  glad  I  am 
to  wake  up  !  You  don't  know  the  exhilaration  and  al 
most  ecstasy  of  doing,  or  of  trying  to  do  things,  to  feel 
your  faculties  like  new  fountains  stir,  and  hear  their 
voices  calling,  like  new  sounds.  How  we  women  live 
out  of  the  world  !  And  to  find  these  men  out,  to  see 
what  dear,  delicious  humbugs  the}'  really  arc.  Just  to 
sit  and  hear  them  argue,  for  instance,  is  too  funny 
for  anything  in  this  world.  Our  father  and  Mr.  Wausor 
(269) 


270  THE   PORTRAIT. 

would  not  at  first  agree  upon  anything.  Our  dear 
precious  is  more  unworldly  than  even  a  woman ; 
and  Wansor,  in  a  small  way,  is  shrewd  and  subtle. 
He  does  everything  indirectly.  He'd  rather  not  know 
a  thing  unless  he  can  draw  it  out  in  a  cork-screwy 
way.  He  always  supposes  men  act  from  the  basest 
motives.  Indeed,  he  don't  believe  that  any  others 
exist ;  and  he  and  our  father  argued  and  settled,  and 
unsettled  everything  ;  no  matter  whether  it  was  of  the 
least  importance  or  not,  or  whether  they  could  connect 
it  with  anything,  it  had  to  be  settled,  and  then  talked 
over,  and  then  set  down  for  argument.  And  then, 
Maud,  if  you  could  see  how  these  Mormons  live,  poorer 
than  the  whites  among  the  mountains,  so  squalid,  and 
the  women,  poor  things,  so  ignorant,  and  yet  such 
enthusiasts,  that  it  was  almost  beautiful.  But  what  a 
horror  Nauvoo  is !  What  dreadful  men  must  have 
congregated  there  !  And  then,  Maudy,  men  are  coarse- 
fibered.  I  suppose  they  have  to  be  ;  one  cannot  asso 
ciate  two  months  with  a  detective  and  hear  his  uncon 
scious  talk  without  thinking  less  of  the  sex.  They 
make  such  innocent  revelations  of  themselves.  Of 
course,  dear,  our  father,  and  your  James,  and  —  " 

"  Your  prince,  Belle,  are  exceptions.  Dear,  I  know 
all  that ;  let  them  go  for  the  present.  You  are  just  a 
shade  thinner,  —  look  a  little  worn,  and  yet,  somehow, 
you  are  lovelier, — have  more  character.  I  only  fear 
that  this  hero  may  not  be  worthy  of  }'ou,  after  all. 
Dear  stupid !  mooning  around,  unknowing,  and  you 
woriying  your  brain  and  soul  out  for  him  !  Oh,  if  lie 
don't  worship  you  when  he  knows,  —  no  matter  how  it 
comes  out !  And,  Belle,  dear,  I  half  suspect  that  this 


BELLE    ARGUES    HER   CASE    WITH    MAUD.  271 

letter  is  from  him,"  —  holding  up  Fred's  note  from 
Mantua.  "  It  has  been  here  man}'  days."  As  Belle's 
eyes  fell  upon  it,  they  filled  with  the  old,  marvellous 
light,  and  just  a  bright  suffusion  kindled  up  lip  and 
cheek.  She  opened  it  with  a  hand  that  trembled,  ran 
her  e}~e  over  it,  and,  with  a  cry  of  anguish,  threw  her 
face  down  upon  the  bosom  of  her  wondering  sister,  and, 
for  a  moment,  abandoned  herself  to  tears. 

"  My  poor,  poor  Belle  !  My  precious  one  !  "  And 
with  tender  words  and  gentle  caresses  from  Maud,  Belle 
recovered,  and,  placing  the  letter  in  Maud's  hands, 
walked  away  to  a  window  ;  then  she  came  back,  and, 
kneeling  by  Maud,  looked  mutely  up  into  her  moved 
face. 

"  Belle,  Belle,  do  you  not  love  this  so  sorely-stricken 
and  beautiful  3'oung  man  ?  Oh,  I  forgive  him  his  inno 
cent  stupidity  !  " 

"  Oh,  Maud  !  and  you  a  woman,  to  ask  me  this  !  " 

"  And  how  do  you  love  him?" 

"With  heart  and  soul  and  mind  and  strength, —  as 
a  wroman  may  worship  her  idol !  "  dropping  her  face 
into  Maud's  lap.  Maud's  arms  went  about  her  sister's 
waist. 

"  Wh}r  should  3*ou  and  he  be  longer  unhapp}',  then  ? 
Belle,  I  cannot  understand  3^011 !  " 

"Am  I  not  a  wife,  with  a  husband  only  just  a 
little  away  from  me?"  with  a  deep,  earnest,  hollow 
voice.  "  Oh,  Maud  !  If  by  an}-  unheard-of  evil  miracle 
a  man,  an  ideal  one,  should  love  you,  and  your  whole 
self  was  drawn  to  him  with  more  than  answering  love, 
and  he  should  ask  for  a  token,  no  matter  what  or  how 
small,  from  you,  what  would  you  answer  ? " 


272  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"  But  he  only  asks  for  a  sign  that  yon  forgive  him  — 
the  good  Lord  knows  what  for  !  — that  he  may  be  but 
your  casual  acquaintance." 

"Maud,  don't  mistake,  —  the  smallest,  tiniest  thing 
that  is,  would  grow  to  be  the  largest  in  the  world ;  it 
would  be  a  token  of  love  !  " 

"And  why  shouldn't  you  give  him  a  token  of  love, 
pray?  and  your  full  heart  and  whole  self,  —  I  beg  to 
know?" 

"  Because,  —  can't  you  understand,  Maud?  " 

"  No,  I  cannot.  Oh,  my  poor,  precious  Belle !  too 
pure  and  precious  for  earth  !  Can't  you  see  that  this  is 
a  phantom?  Don't  you  feel  that  it  is,  in  your  heart  and 
soul?" 

"  I  begin  to  feel  that  it  is,  but  I  cannot  so  see  it ;  " 
•with  a  lower  and  smaller  voice. 

Maud  was  too  wise  to  press  the  question.  She  would 
leave  it  to  the  logic  of  love,  —  the  only  logic  she  had. 
much  faith  in. 

'"And  this  Fred,  this  D'Arlon,  —  and  what  is  to 
become  of  him,  Belle?  "What  if  he  comes,  finall}',  and 
demands  your  love  —  demands  you  —  comes  and  takes 
you  ?  It  is  in  his  old  Norman  Norse  berserker  blood, 
perhaps." 

"  lie  will  not,  Maud,  when  he  knows  all." 

"  Don't  delude  yourself,  Belle.  Man  is  born  to  do 
minion.  To  covet,  with  him,  is  to  acquire.  When  he 
wooes,  he  will  win  ;  and  it  is  our  poor  nature,  Belle,  to 
be  wooed  and  won.  Where  a  woman's  heart  has  gone, 
she  is  very  apt  to  follow." 

"  Don't  you  believe,  Maud,  that  there  are  men  cap 
able  of  loving  women  generously,  purely,  and  self- 


BELLE   ARGUES    HER   CASE   WITH   MAUD.  273 

sacrificingly?  and  that  there  are  women  who  can  be 
so  loved,  and  who  -will  not  permit  themselves  to  be 
loved  in  any  other  way  ?  " 

"  I  do  believe  both.  But,  Belle,  if  this  youth  is  what 
3'ou  suppose,  or  if  he  is  not  —  and  it  makes  no  differ 
ence,  as  I  see  —  would  you  doom  him  to  a  solitary  life, 
—  a  cold  asceticism,  without  home,  or  wife  and  chil 
dren  ?  " 

"  Might  he  not  finally  marny  ;  and  would  he  not 
love  his  children?" 

"  And  you  hold  the  first  place  in  his  heart  ?  What  a 
wrong  to  some  sweet,  pure  woman,  and  what  an  out 
rage  to  him ! "  And  stepping  to  the  nursery  door, 
where  her  beautiful  children  were  with  an  attendant, 
just  being  put  to  bed,  —  "James,  come  here!"  In 
tripped  a  child  of  wondrous  beauty,  with  cherub  face 
and  locks,  and  in  an  earthly  night-dress,  — "  Jimmy, 
go  and  climb  into  Aunt  Belle's  lap,  and  put  your  arms 
about  her  neck,  and  call  her  mamma  !  "  and  the  frolick- 
some  boy  obeyed.  Springing  to  her  lap,  and  throwing 
his  arms  about  her  neck,  he  nestled  himself  upon  her 
bosom,  with,  "  Mamma  !  oh,  my  beautiful  mamma  ! " 
Then,  releasing  his  arms,  came  back  for  his  mother's 
kiss,  and  sprang  to  his  bed. 

"  Belle,"  said  the  sweet  and  thoughtful  mother,  "  sup 
pose  that  Fred  was  the  father  of  that  child.  —  would 
it  not  be  agony  beyond  endurance,  the  thought  that 
another  woman  was  his  mother?  Oh,  Belle  !" 

"Maud  !  "  —from  the  innermost  depths  of  her  being 
spoke  the  strongly-agitated  girl  —  "the  most  sacred  and 
the  holiest  thing  in  the  world  is  to  be  a  mother.  The 
18 


274  THE    PORTRAIT. 

mystery  of  the  first  creation  is  no  greater  miracle  than 
this  wondrous  thing." 

"  And  loving  as  you  do,  Belle,  would  }*ou  put  all  this 
from  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Maud !  Maud  !  Maud  !   Ask  God  to  help  mo  ! " 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

MOSS-ROSES. 

MARBURY'S  trip  South  had  given  him  new  views 
of  slavery,  which  were  largely  s}*mpathized  in 
b}'  Mr.  Morris  ;  and  the  announcement  that  Mr.  Gid- 
dings  was  to  speak  within  two  or  three  miles  of  them, 
induced  them  to  attend  the  meeting.  On  the  morning 
of  the  day,  it  was  rumored  that  the  eloquent  young 
Democrat  mentioned  on  the  placards  was  no  other 
than  Fred,  who  was  now  an  object  of  paramount  in 
terest  to  the  Morris  circle,  and  whose  fortunes  had  for 
the  last  two  months  been  their  one  theme  of  thought, 
labor,  and  anxiet}~.  There  was  the  greatest  curiosity 
to  see  and  hear  him. 

To  Belle,  the  news  that  Fred  was  in  the  neighbor 
hood  was  peculiarly  exciting.  She  determined  at  once 
to  attend  the  meeting,  and  induced  her  sister  Maud, 
who,  next  to  Belle,  took  the  largest  interest  in  Fred, 
to  be  of  the  part 3'. 

Before  she  left  home,  she  selected  a  few  half-opened 
moss-roses,  which  she  wore  on  her  bosom,  as  may  be 
remembered,  and  which  Maud  observed  seemed  to  be 
adjusted  in  a  manner  that  would  admit  of  their  being 
easily  removed.  On  consultation,  the  gentlemen  were 
decidedly  of  opinion  that  Fred  should  be  invited  to 
(275) 


276  THE    PORTRAIT. 

spend  the  night  at  the  Morris  mansion ;  whether  he 
should  be  let  into  the  secret  of  his  fortunes,  should  be 
afterwards  determined. 

Belle  was  decidedly  opposed  to  this,  —  perhaps  she 
could  not  tell  why,  had  she  tried.  It  may  have  been 
more  a  matter  of  womanl}*  feeling  and  sentiment  than 
of  reason.  When  pressed  for  a  reason,  the  miracle  of 
coolness,  and  shrewdness,  and  practical  sense  which 
she  had  become,  only  pouted,  and  said  very  prettily, 
but  very  decidedly,  that  she  was  a  woman,  and  not 
obliged  to  give  a  reason  ;  and  Maud  instinctively  ad 
hered  to  Belle.  Poor  child !  she  must  see  Fred  ;  she 
wanted  to  be  near  him  and  hear  him,  and  she  meant  to 
carry  that  bunch  of  rose-buds,  and  if  she  gave  them  to 
him,  then  she  wanted  to  go  away  from  him  for  a  little. 
She  could  not  tell  him  about  himself  till  she  could 
make  it  certain.  She  had  not  yet  heard  from  Warden 
or  Sally.  She  would  at  least  wait  till  after  the  trial. 
She  wanted  to  hear  again  from  his  mother.  She  wanted 
to  wait ;  she  wanted  time  for  herself.  She  knew  she 
should  tell  him  all  her  heart  and  self,  and  she  wanted 
to  know  her  full  self.  Somehow  Edward  had  grown 
more  shadowy,  and  her  marriage  to  him  had  become 
shadowy  too,  and  did  not  seem  to  rest  on  her  con 
science  at  all,  but  only  as  a  phantom  in  her  mind  and 
memory. 

They  went  and  heard  the  speeches,  and  were  all  alike 
in  ecstasies  over  Fred's.  Mr.  Morris  and  Marbnt}-,  as 
well  as  Maud,  had  seen  the  famous  portrait  in  Flor 
ence,  and  at  the  owner's  residence  in  Boston  ;  they 
pronounced  Fred  its  living  counterpart,  and  had  no 
lingering  doubt  of  his  being  the  son  of  its  original. 


MOSS-ROSES.  277 

As  for  Belle,  Fred's  speech  was  more  than  it  could 
by  possibility  be  to  others.  Through  his  03-68  she 
could  look  into  his  soul,  which  she  felt  was  pure  and 
exalted  as  her  own.  How  much  he  towered  above  all 
the  men  about  him !  and  in  his  anger  he  was  the 
retributive  angel  of  wrath,  beautiful  and  terrible. 
Even  Maud  could  now  forgive  him  for  not  reading  the 
sealed  book  of  his  own  history. 

When  the  meeting  was  over,  Belle  insisted  on  going 
home,  and  for  once  did  not  have  her  way.  Mr.  Gid- 
dings's  friend  had,  in  advance,  sent  Mr.  Morris  and 
party  an  invitation  to  dinner,  which  had  been  accepted. 
Then  Fred  was  brought  in  ;  all  the  glory  of  his  face 
was  gone,  and  he  was  cold,  almost  haughty.  She  could 
not  wonder  at  it,  but  was  hurt  and  pained  more  than 
she  could  express.  She  could  not  comprehend  or  make 
allowance  for  him.  Why  must  he  not  know  that  he  could 
not  love  any  woman  in  vain  ?  that  there  must  be  some 
reason  for  her  silence  and  seeming  coldness  ?  Had  he  not, 
while  on  the  stand,  looked  into  her  very  heart,  and  when 
he  took  his  seat,  like  a  marble  statue  b}~  her  at  the  table, 
was  he  not  a  mere  machine?  Yet  she  could  see  that 
he  had  grown  thin,  and  was  now  almost  haggard.  She 
felt  that  he  was  as  wretched  as  he  could  be,  and  what 
a  grieving  joy  that  was  to  her.  What  a  blessed  thing 
to  be  near  him,  even  in  this  mood.  How  madly  and 
meaninglessly  voices  clamored  and  clangored  about 
her !  He  spoke,  but  how  cold  and  constrained  ;  and 
was  not  she  frigid  and  distant  also?  But  then  he 
would  turn  to  her,  and  besides,  all  eyes  were  on  him 
constantly,  —  and  then  ho  was  called  out,  and  in  the 
little  swirl  and  turn  of  heads  to  follow  him,  the  moss- 


278  THE    PORTRAIT. 

roses,  in  their  greenish  purple  hoods  from  which  they 
were  just  breaking,  somehow  reached  the  side  of  his 
plate,  and  he  did  not  return.  Poor  roses  ! 

Was  it  a  providence  that  called  him  off?  What  if  some 
accident  should  happen  to  him?  But  none  would  hap 
pen.  God  would  restore  him  to  his  mother ;  that 
surely  would  happen.  Then  joy  and  hope  sprang  up  in 
her  heart,  and  light  and  warmth  to  her  face  ;  she  heard 
so  gladly  the  warm  and  just  things  spoken  of  Fred,  and 
could  have  kissed  Mr.  Giddings  for  his  beautiful  and 
kindly  words. 

A  more  wretched  young  man  did  not  breathe  on  the 
continent  than  the  so  loved,  admired,  praised,  and 
gifted  3'oung  orator,  who  rode  out  on  his  lonely  way. 
He  felt  crushed,  and,  man-like,  was  taciturn  and  gloomy. 
The  man  who  came  for  him,  after  two  or  three  vain  at 
tempts  at  conversation,  relapsed,  through  Yankee- 
doodle  badly  whistled,  into  silence,  and  devoted  his 
energies  to  his  horses  on  the  home-stretch. 

What  was  it  after  all  to  sway  men,  to  stir  up  a  mob, 
to  win  their  admiration?  Even  now  it  was  being  whis 
pered  about  the  tiling  he  was,  and  she  would  hear  it. 
His  heart  was  too  utterly  wretched  to  feel  even  this 
sting.  Let  it  go :  some  cheer,  some  comfort,  some 
light  —  at  least  rest  —  might  come.  Love,  warmth,  and 
gladness  were  not  for  him.  Then  with  a  determined 
effort  he  crushed  his  emotions  and  heart-throbs  down 
in  a  mass,  and  placed  his  will  upon  them.  No  ;  these 
things  were  not  for  him  ;  his  way  was  to  be  solitary,  — 
had  always  been.  As  they  gained  a  hill  under  the  rays 
of  the  falling  da)',  far  in  the  upper  air,  cold  and  thin, 
and  where  the  light  was  still  white,  his  eye  caught  the 


MOPS-ROSES.  279 

form  of  an  eagle  flying  eastward,  cleaving  the  air,  as 
by  an  effort  of  will,  in  calm,  proud,  conscious  might, 
sweeping  from  gathering  night  to  meet  the  day  that 
•was  to  come,  and  alone.  High  up  and  solitary  his  eye 
followed  it  till  the  bow-like  curve  of  the  mighty  wings 
melted,  till,  diminishing  to  a  speck,  the  eagle  disap 
peared  in  the  darkening  void,  coming  from  mystery 
and  lost  in  the  unknown,  flashing  for  a  moment  on  the 
wondering  gaze  of  men  below,  and  passing  beyond  the 
reach  of  their  feeble  vision.  This  vaguely  hinted  to 
him  of  a  career  straight,  high,  proud,  and  alone.  Lord  ! 
how  his  man's  soul  swelled  and  went  upward,  crushing 
its  mist  into  his  dimming  eyes  at  the  thought. 

As  he  went  on,  he  seemed  to  detach  himself  from  the 
clinging,  haunting  presence  of  Belle  ;  and  as  he  receded 
from  her  radiance,  if  his  shadow  of  intense  darkness 
grew  huge  and  shapeless,  it  also  dissipated  and  grew 
less  palpable  and  ooscuring ;  and  when  he  finally 
escaped  to  a  sort  of  hazy  twilight,  and  mentally  turned 
backward,  objects  seemed  again  to  fall  under  the 
law  of  perspective,  and  he  determined  that  Belle 
should  maintain  her  proper  place.  Other  men  had 
been  slighted,  scorned,  and  despised,  and  had  lived, 
perhaps,  improved  and  benefited.  He  knew  he  must 
live ;  but  to  what  purpose  ?  Pshaw  !  how  weak  and 
commonplace  he  was.  And  he  closed  his  eyes  to  it  all, 
and  rode  forward. 

Twilight  had  come,  and  the  fingers  of  the  early  night 
had  shaken  out  upon  the  gathering  dew  the  aroma 
of  the  flowers,  and  were  closing  their  censers  till  another 
day. 

Sleepy  children  subsiding  from  the  long  day's  happy 


280  THE    PORTRAIT. 

play,  and  in  whose  swimming  eyes  the  shadows  of 
dreams  were  deepening,  dropped  on  doorsteps,  and 
nodded  in  forgctfulness.  Lights  came  cheeril}-  into 
darkening  windows,  and  the  contented  voices  of  happy 
husbands  and  wives,  and  the  laughter  of  girls,  came 
out  from  many  a  wayside  homestead.  There  came 
upon  the  consciousness  of  the  burdened  and  weary, 
youth  the  vision  of  a  rose-wreathed  cottage,  under  frag 
rant  trees,  in  the  twilight,  and  a  white-robed  form  of 
wondrous  loveliness  tripping  eagerly  out,  with  red  lips 
and  white  arms,  to  greet  and  welcome  him.  As  the 
vision  cheated  him  of  pain,  he  did  not  banish  it,  though 
the  form  was  that  of  Belle. 

On  his  arrival  he  found  that  his  associate  had  been 
notified  that  the  prosecutors  had  determined  to  have 
the  case  set  for  Monday  of  the  second  week  of  the 
court  instead  of  the  third,  which  was  to  commence  its 
session  the  next  da}-.  This  arrangement  would  leave 
scant  time  to  secure  the  witnesses  for  the  defendant. 
The  announcement  was  like  a  trumpet-call  to  Fred, 
who  was  prompt  when  challenged  to  labor  on  ordinary 
occasions,  and  now  a  summons  to  action  was  an  abso 
lute  relief.  The  case  was  of  the  utmost  gravity  —  the 
most  important  he  had  ever  appeared  in  —  he  was  to 
be  the  responsible  counsel,  and  unembarrassed  by  the 
timid  counsels  of  an  older  and  more  cautious  leader. 
He  believed  Jake  was  entirely  innocent.  He  thought 
he  knew  the  whole  ground,  and  had  thoroughly  culti 
vated  ever}'  inch  of  it ;  had  examined  all  the  books 
within  reach,  and  taken  all  their  hints. 

He  did  not  go  the  next  day  to  Warren,  and  of  course 
did  not  see  Belle,  who  had  become  much  interested  in 


MOSS-ROSES.  281 

Mr.  Gicklings's  canvass,  and  induced  her  father  to  take 
Maud  and  herself  over  to  town.  In  some  waj7  the 
meeting  fell  very  flat  to  her,  and  she  returned  home 
grave  and  quiet. 

Meantime,  Fred  reexamined  the  whole  case  ;  made 
a  very  accurate  list  of  the  State's  witnesses,  with  notes 
of  their  evidence,  arranged  his  own,  notified  Dr. 
Ackly,  and  the  witnesses  from  Ravenna  and  Warren, 
issued  subpoenas  for  his  witnesses,  got  a  list  of  the 
proposed  jurors,  and  ascertained  all  that  could  be 
known  of  them  individually.  When  the  day  arrived 
he  was  ready,  prepared,  in  the  sense  in  which  careful 
law}"ers  use  that  word. 

What  motive  induced  a  change  in  the  programme  of 
the  State,  Fred  never  knew,  though  he  may  have 
guessed  ;  whether  it  was  for  the  purpose  of  shortening 
his  time  for  preparation,  or  for  other  cause,  he  did 
not  trouble  himself  to  ascertain,  although  he  suspected 
the  former. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 


AN    OLD    TIME    MURDER   TRIAL. 


was  one  of  the  oldest  towns  on  the 
Reserve,  in  the  midst  of  a  rich  and  highly  culti 
vated  country,  and  was  noted  as  the  residence  of  Elisha 
"Whittles}-,  Judge  Newton,  Judge  Church,  and  other 
prominent  men.  It  was  a  delightful  little  town  of  two 
or  three  hundred  inhabitants,  many  of  whom  were 
wealth}-  and  refined.  The  trial  was  an  event  of 
great  moment,  and  although  occurring  at  a  very  busy 
season  for  an  agricultural  community,  was  attended 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end  by  an  immense  number 
of  people,  including  mam-  of  the  wives  and  daughters 
of  the  farmers,  while  many  of  the  ladies  of  "Warren, 
Youngstown,  and  other  towns,  accompanied  their  hus 
bands  and  brothers,  attending  eveiy  day's  session  to 
the  end  of  the  trial. 

Judge  Xewton  presided,  assisted  by  three  associ 
ates.  He  had  been  long  and  favorably  known  at  the 
bar,  had  much  reputation  as  an  advocate,  and  as  a 
judge  presided  with  dignitv  and  urbanitv.  Bv  the 

«J  O  1  O  ••  v  %J 

laws  of  Ohio,  thirty-six  men  were  specially  empanelled 
from  which  to  select  the  jury,  the  defendant  having 
twent}--three  peremptory  challenges,  —  a  right  to  reject 
twenty-three  without  assigning  any  cause.  The  pros- 
(282) 


AN    OLD    TIME    MURDER    TRIAL.  283 

editing  attorney,  on  this  occasion,  was  aided  by  two 
lawyers  of  local  eminence,  and  perhaps  they  and  the 
court  were  a  little  surprised  —  the  latter  unpleasantly 
so  —  that  the  prisoner  should  be  represented  by  two 
mere  youths  at  the  bar,  where  a  man  is  young  at  forty, 
one  of  whom  was  known  to  possess  but  moderate  abil 
ity.  The  rumor  of  Fred's  speech  had  reached  Mahoning 
county,  and  many  were  in  attendance  who  heard  it. 
His  youthfulnesa  was  a  great  point  to  him,  after  all, 
and  with  his  rare  personal  advantages  had  made  him  a 
favorite  at  once,  while  the  most  extravagant  stories  of 
his  powers  as  an  advocate  gained  ready  credence. 

The  ladies  were  captivated  by  his  good  looks,  and 
began  to  look  favorably  on  Jake  ;  while  some  men  never 
knew  a  man  whom  ladies  admired  who  knew  anything, 
and  as  for  Jake,  —  he'd  be  hanged  anyhow.  When  the 
case  was  called,  Fred  promptly  answered  that  he  was 
ready  ;  which  the  State's  attorney  was  a  little  surprised 
at,  as  he  had  counted  on  a  motion  to  continue,  or  at  least 
for  a  week's  delay,  and  possibly  for  a  change  of  venue. 
Young  as  he  was,  Fred  knew  the  effect  of  a  cheerful 
confidence  on  his  part,  upon  others. 

The  jurors  were  called,  and  took  their  seats  in  a 
body.  They  had  been  selected  with  careful  fairness 
from  parts  of  the  county  remote  from  the  scene  of  the 
murder,  and  underwent  a  close  scrutiny  by  Fred,  whose 
life  and  experience  had  made  him  a  good  student  of 
men.  The  jury  were  sworn  as  to  their  qualifications, 
and  examined  by  the  counsel  on  either  side,  the  State 
taking  the  initiative.  —  the  court  acting  as  the  trier 

~  O 

of  the  jurors.  Fred  conducted  his  side  with  great  tact 
and  judgment,  and  with  a  quiet,  eas}-,  grave  manner 


284  THE    PORTRAIT. 

that  was  quite  charming  and  contrasted  with  that  of  the 
prosecuting  attorney',  who  was  sharp,  and  often  rude,  to 
his  opponent.  To  the  surprise  of  the  court  and  bar, 
the  twelve  were  secured  from  the  first  panel  and 
sworn  in  an  hour.  Fred  obviously  looked  for  but 
one  qualification  —  intelligence  —  and  unhesitatingly 
accepted  two  or  three  who  said  that  they  had  formed 
opinions.  He  knew  enough  of  the  workings  of  the 
human  intellect  to  feel  sure  that  when  a  man  discovered 
that  his  opinion  was  based  on  an  erroneous  statement, 
lie  distrusted  the  whole  theory  upon  which  it  was 
formed,  and  his  judgment  was  apt  at  once  to  accept  its 
opposite.  Fred  knew  that  it  would  be  made  to  appear 
that  the  popular  view  of  the  homicide  was  very  erro 
neous,  and  he  counted  on  this  law  of  mind. 

The  prisoner  was  arraigned,  and  the  indictment 
solemnly  read,  the  plea  of  Not  Guilty  entered,  and  the 
case  was  ready,  when  the  district  attorne}'  suggested 
that  the  court  take  a  recess  for  dinner.  Those  were 
the  good  old  times  of  honest  work  in  the  country  ;  and 
after  consultation  with  the  counsel,  Judge  Newton 
announced  that  during  the  trial  the  court  would  assem 
ble  at  eight,  A.M.,  take  a  recess  from  twelve  to  one, 
and  sit  until  six  in  the  evening. 

On  resuming,  the  district  attorne}*  opened  out  his 
case  in  a  written  speech  of  much  force  of  adjective  and 
great  clearness  of  denunciation.  He  said  that  the  mur 
dered  man,  Olncy,  had  left  the  Mormons  at  Nauvoo, 
had  visited  his  brethren  at  Kirtland,  from  which  place 
he  started  two  days  before  the  murder,  and  passed 
along  a  well-known  route,  and  was  seen  to  enter  the 
fatal  woods  just  at  dusk,  and  so  forth.  That  he  had 


AN    OLD    TIME    MURDER    TRIAL.  285 

been  followed  from  Nauvoo  by  Green,  himself  the  son 
of  a  murderer,  as  he  was  prepared  to  show,  who 
arrived  at  Kirtland  a  da}'  or  two  after  Olney,  and  was 
seen  on  the  same  route  following  him.  That  he  was 
traced  into  the  woods  and  tracked  out,  and  that  when 
arrested  there  was  found  on  him  a  remarkable  docu 
ment,  which  he  presumed  would  amaze  the  counsel  for 
the  prisoner,  which  he  had  taken  from  the  body  of  the 
murdered  man,  and  which  would  furnish  proof  of 
motive,  and  so  forth.  It  was  to  secure  this  that  Olney 
was  followed  and  assassinated. 

When  the  witnesses  were  called  for  the  State,  Judge 
Newton  asked  Fred,  in  a  suggestive  tone,  whether  he 
would  have  them  separated.  Fred  answered  that  he 
did  not  deem  it  necessary.  lie  presumed  the  witnesses 
would  do  their  best  to  tell  the  truth,  and  that  in  that 
rested  the  defendant's  hope. 

The  State  produced  witnesses,  proving  the  finding 
of  the  deceased,  and  the  doctors,  who  swore  that  life 
was  destined  by  a  blow  or  blows  on  the  head,  fractur 
ing  the  skull,  and  so  forth.  Fred,  in  a  very  quiet  way, 
put  these  men  under  the  gentle  torture  of  a  cross-exam- 
nation  such  as  the  learned  M.D.'s  sometimes  enjo}'  at 
the  hands  of  their  brethren  of  the  bar.  In  this  instance 
it  was-  the  more  embarrassing,  as  the  dreaded  Ackly, 
was  observed  to  be  a  grim  listener.  When  asked  to 
explain  how  they  knew  that  the  man  died  of  a  blow  on 
the  head,  their  reasons  were  not  satisfactory.  They 
made  no  examination  of  an}*  kind  ;  did  not  deem  it 
necessary.  He  was  dead,  his  skull  fractured,  and  most 
men  would  deem  that  sufficient.  Of  course  it  could  be 
done  by  a  blow,  and  in  no  other  way.  Had  they 


286  THE    PORTRAIT. 

removed  the  scalp?  No.  How  did  they  know  tho 
skull  was  fractured  ?  Did  they  know  whether  the  neck 
or  spine  was  injured?  They  made  no  examination. 
The  questioning  was  cool,  quiet,  but  long  and  exhaus 
tive.  It  was  evident  that  here  lay  one  position  of  the 
defence,  and  the  State's  medical  testimony  left  it  dubi 
ous  as  to  the  means  and  cause  of  death.  The  quick, 
cool,  shrewd  spectators  saw  the  weakness  of  the  case. 
Some  marks  and  bruises  were  found  on  other  parts  of 
the  bod}',  produced,  as  was  said,  by  dragging  the  body 
after  the  murder  ;  it  was  left  quite  doubtful  whether 
they  were  not  made  before  death,  or  might  have  been. 

It  appeared  that  it  had  snowed  on  the  night  of  the 
murder,  and  the  snow  was  two  or  three  inches  deep  in 
the  morning,  covering  the  body  of  the  slain  man  ;  and 
also  that  a  watch  and  a  small  amount  of  money  were 
found  on  him. 

Proof  was  then  made  that  he  was  at  Kirtland  ;  sev 
eral  saw  him  on  the  line  of  the  road,  and  he  was  last 
seen,  just  at  dark,  entering  the  woods ;  that  his  horse 
was  found  nearly  at  the  point  of  entering  the  wood, 
with  one  foot  through  the  bridle  rein,  which  had  been 
loose,  and  which -was  now  caught  over  a  small  stump 
or  root,  and  thus  tethered  him.  The  saddle  had  turned, 
and  was  found  partly  under  his  belly.  A  small  port 
manteau  which  he  had  carried,  was  never  found.  Men 
swore  to  the  presence  of  Jake  in  Kirtland  ;  but  i;he 
exact  time  was  left  in  doubt.  Many  saw  a  person 
much  like  him  along  the  route  of  travel  pursued  by 
Olney,  and  on  the  same  days.  The  road  traversing  the 
woods,  which  were  about  a  mile  and  a  half  in  extent, 
ran  easterly,  and  Olney  was  going  east.  At  about 


AN    OLD    TIME    MURDER   TRIAL.  287 

midway  of  the  woods  a  road  running  south  terminated 
in  this  east  and  west  road.  Without  doubt  Jake  had 
travelled  this  north  and  south  road  some  time  in  the 
latter  part  of  the  same  night,  or  early  the  following 
morning,  for  he  stopped  two  miles  south  of  it,  where 
he  took  breakfast ;  and  before  the  snow  melted  off 
he  was  tracked  back  to  the  east  and  west  road  ;  from 
the  point  where  he  had  eaten  breakfast  he  was  traced 
to  Coshocton  and  arrested.  When  arrested,  he  refused 
to  tell  his  name,  and  denied  having  been  in  Mahoning 
count}'  at  all ;  and  then  he  suddenly  became  silent,  and 
refused  to  say  anything  more,  and  did  not. 

"  What  did  you  find  on  his  person?"  to  the  officer 
arresting  him. 

"A  paper,  or  rather  several  papers,  fastened  to 
gether." 

"  Look  at  this  ;  "  handing  him  a  closely-written  doc 
ument. 

"  That  is  it.  He  threw  this  from  him,  or  from  his 
clothes,  where  they  lay  in  his  sleeping-room,  when  we 
found  him.  I  saw  him  throw  it  into  the  fire-place,  in 
which  was  a  little  fire,  and  you  see  where  it  is 
scorched." 

".You  all  see  it,  gentlemen,"  said  the  prosecuting 
attorney,  with  an  air.  "  I  propose,"  said  he,  rising, 
';  to  read  this  paper  to  the  jury.  It  is  a  most  remark 
able  document,"  glancing  at  Fred. 

"  Show  it  to  Mr  Warden,"  said  the  court. 

"  I  presume  he  is  familiar  with  it,  or  ought  to  be," 
remarked  the  lawyer,  tossing  it  to  him  with  an  air  of 
unconcern. 

A  thrill  ran  through  the  frame  of  Fred  as  he  turned 


288  THE    PORTRAIT. 

over  three  or  four  closely-written  pages  to  the  end,  and 
found,  "John  Green,  his  x  mark,"  attested  by  "II.  G. 
Ladd,  Mantua,  Jan.  10th,  1831." 

"  The  gentleman  is  doubtless  familiar  with  the  sig 
nature  ?  "  meaningly. 

"  I've  seen  something  like  it ;  most  men  make  marks 
alike." 

"  You'll  find  it  an  interesting  document ;  "  with  indif 
ference. 

"  That  is  ver}'  possible,  though  its  interest  docs  not 
shine  out  at  once,"  with  forced  calmness,  while  a  chill, 
like  a  rigor  mortis,  for  an  instant  shivered  through  him, 
for  his  eye  had  caught  his  own  name  once  or  twice  in 
running  it  over.  It  Hashed  across  him  that  in  this 
paper,  Green,  among  other  things,  had  set  down  his 
history,  showing  the  details,  probably,  of  his  wretched 
birth,  which  could  have  no  further  bearing  on  the  case 
than  to  show  his  personal  relation  to  Jake,  and  create 
a  prejudice  against  himself.  His  first  and  only  thought 
was  of  the  injury  and  mischief  that  such  an  expose 
must  work  to  the  case.  None  but  a  lawyer  can  appre 
ciate  —  possibly  credit  —  this  statement.  To  the  true 
advocate,  everything,  and  self  more  than  all,  is  subor 
dinated,  sunk,  for  the  client.  Fred  would  oppose  the 
introduction  of  this  writing  to  the  last,  and  with  only 
this  glance  he  arose  with  it  in  his  hand. 

"  Do   I   understand   that   the   prosecuting   attorney 
proposes  to  read  this  thing  in  evidence  ?  " 
"  Certainby." 

"  Your  Honors,  it  purports  to  have  been  executed 
on  the  tenth  of  January,  1831,  fourteen  years  ago, 
and  can  therefore  by  no  possibility  contain  the  slight- 


AN   OLD   TIME    MURDER   TRIAL.  289 

est  information  as, to  the  death  of  Olney  in  1845.  It 
was  not  made  by  the  defendant,  and  its  contents 
can  by  no  rules  of  evidence  be  given  against  him.  If 
I  should  be  found  with  a  book  in  my  hands,  you  could 
not  read  it  against  me  as  evidence,  unless  you  could 
show  that  I  was  its  author." 

"  If  the  court  please,"  answered  the  prosecuting  attor 
ney,  "  the  paper  was  made  by  John  Green,  the  father  of 
the  prisoner,  as  I  will  show,  and  as  the  gentleman  very 
well  knows,  and  contains  statements  of  the  most  damn 
ing  character,"  with  a  significant  look  at  Fred  ;  "  and 
as  T  stated  in  my  opening,  it  was  in  the  possession  of 
the  deceased,  and  it  was  to  get  possession  of  this  paper 
that  this  most  blood}-,  atrocious,  wicked,  hellish  and  dia 
bolical  murder  was  committed.  I  hope  the  gentleman 
understands,  and  will  interpose  no  further  objection." 

"  I  think  I  do,"  —  very  modestly.  "  It  is  offered  for 
two  purposes,  I  presume :  to  connect  the  defendant 
with  the  deceased  by  showing  him  in  possession  of  the 
dead  man's  goods,  and  then  to  supply  the  motive  by 
showing  the  quality  or  value  of  the  thing  taken." 

"  Exactly,  —  the  gentleman  states  it  exactly,"  in  his 
seat. 

"  Before  it  can  be  admitted  for  either  purpose,"  con 
tinued  Fred,  "  it  must  be  proven  to  have  been  in  the 
possession  of  the  deceased  at  the  time  of  death  ;  other 
wise,  the  possession  of  it  by  the  defendant  raises  no 
presumption  against  him.  And  as  this  is  a  paper 
writing,  the  contents  of  which  alone  give  it  value, 
proof  of  the  execution  of  it,  and  the  relation  of  the 
parties,  must  be  first  given." 

"  I  will  satisfy  the  captious  gentleman  !  "  exclaimed 
19 


290  THE    PORTRAIT. 

the  prosecuting  attorney.  "  Mr.  Wansor,  come  for 
ward  ; "  and  Belle's  detective  took  the  stand.  A  short, 
stoutish,  sharp,  but  good-natured  looking  man,  who 
said  that  he  was  a  detective  of  Philadelphia,  recently 
on  professional  business  at  Nauvoo,  where  he  had  occa 
sion  to  inquire  after  John  Green,  and  found  that  he 
had  died  the  fifth  of  January  before,  and  that  his  sister 
left,  as  was  supposed,  for  Ohio  some  time  after. 

Fred,  poor  innocent,  asked  him,  "  What  took  him  to 
Nauvoo  ?  " 

Wansor  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  in  bewildered 
amazement,  that  he,  of  all  men,  should  ask  that  ques 
tion  ;  but  recovering,  "  I  went  on  professional  business 
for  Miss  Belle  Morris,  as  I  understand  it,  and  was 
accompanied  by  her  and  her  father.  I  must  refer  3*011 
to  her  for  the  nature  of  our  mission." 

"  Miss  Bolle  Morris  !  "  Fred's  breath  went,  and  her 
name  escaped  him  involuntarily.  Two  or  three  min 
utes'  pause,  and  then,  in  a  softened  voice,  "  Did  you 
hear  ai^-thing  of  Green's  sister,  the  defendant's  aunt, 
except  what  you  have  stated  ?  " 

"  Xo ;  she  was  thought  to  have  gone  down  the 
river." 

"  Perhaps  the  gentleman  would  like  to  inquire  after 
some  other  of  his  old  friends  and  relatives,"  with  Ji 
meaning  smile  to  the  jury. 

"  I  will  —  one  other  —  if  you  please  ;  Mr.  Wansor, 
when  were  you  in  Xativoo  ?  " 

"  We  came  from  there  about  two  weeks  ago." 

"•  How  long  were  }-ou  there? " 

"  Some  two  or  three  weeks." 

"  Did  you  make  the  acquaintance  of  many  of  the 


AX    OLD    TIME    MURDER    TRIAL.  291 

saints,  my  old  friends  and  relatives,  as  the  gentleman 
calls  them  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  saw  a  good  many." 

"  What  was  my  old  friend  Oliver  Olney  doing  when 
you  last  saw  him?"  Sensation. 

';  I  saw  Olney  several  times.  He  had  just  returned 
from  Kirtland,  as  I  understood.  I  saw  him  several 
times."  Prodigious  sensation,  which  reached  the  State's 
counsel  and  the  court. 

"  That  is  all ;  many  thanks,"  very  quietly. 

"  Do  you  say  that  you  saw  Olney  —  Oliver  Olney  — 
at  Xauvoo?  "  asked  the  prosecuting  attorney. 

"  Oh,  }-es.  I  knew  him  before.  Had  seen  him  in 
Pittsburg.  also  in  Philadelphia,  and  in  1830  at  Kirt 
land  ;  "  and  Wansor  was  dismissed. 

There  was  a  pause ;  the  counsel  overhauled  the 
indictment  with  a  nervous  eagerness,  followed  by  a 
blank  dismay,  and  after  some  hurried  consultation 
they  went  on. 

They  then  called  Ladd,  of  Mjintua.  who  identified 
the  paper ;  said  that  it  was  signed  by  John  Green 
in  his  presence,  and  acknowledged  before  him  in  the 
presence  of  Jo  Smith  and  Rigdon.  on  the  day  of  its 
date.  He  knew  nothing  of  the  writing  or  contents  of 
the  papers.  He  understood  that  the  defendant  was  a 
son  of  John  Green. 

Fred  said  that  the  defendant  admitted  the  relation 
ship. 

"  I  suppose,  now,"  said  the  prosecuting  attorney, '"  that 
the  gentleman  is  satisfied,  and  I  may  now  read  these 
papers  ;"  with  an  injured  air. 

"  One  moment,  if  the  court  please,"  and  Fred  arose. 


292  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"  The  real  difficulty  in  the  wa}-  of  the  State  is  not  re 
moved,  or  even  approached.  Not  a  word  of  evidence 
has  yet  been  given  to  show  that  this  paper  was  ever, 
at  any  time,  in  the  hands  of  the  deceased.  How,  then, 
can  it  be  claimed  that  the  defendant  murdered  him  to 
get  possession  of  it  ?  How  does  the  possession  of  this 
document  by  the  defendant,  tend  to  show  that  he  had 
ever  even  seen  the  deceased?  " 

One  of  the  counsel  for  the  State  replied  in  a  labored 
effort,  and  not  without  ingenuitj*.  With  no  reply 
from  Fred,  the  court  unhesitatingly  sustained  the  ob 
jection,  and  excluded  the  document  wholly. 

The  State  staggered  on  a  little  further,  and  in  part 
met  the  blow  it  had  received  from  its  own  witness,  Wan- 
sor.  A  man  who  had  known  Olney  in  Ohio  had  seen 
the  remains  of  the  deceased,  and  recognized  the  body 
as  that  of  Oliver  Olney.  He  called  him  Olney,  and  so 
did  others,  and  the  body  was  spoken  of  as  Olney's.  In 
answer  to  Fred,  he  said  that  he  believed  that  Oliver 
had  a  brother  John,  who  resembled  him,  yet  what  be 
came  of  him  he  never  knew. 

Others  swore  that  the  body  was  spoken  of  as  that  of 
Olney.  It  was  further  shown  that  the  man  had  a  small 
valise  mailed  on  behind  his  saddle  on  the  day  preceding 
his  death ;  but,  as  sworn  to  by  others,  no  vestige  of  it 
had  been  discovered  since  his  death.  And  the  State 
closed. 

It  was  somehow  apparent  to  the  spectators  that  the 
State  had  failed  to  make  so  strong  a  case  as  was  sup 
posed  to  exist,  and,  as  often  occurs,  the  outside  opinion 
or  impression  was  much  changed,  and  was  concentrat 
ing  about  the  leading  counsel  for  the  prisoner,  who 


AN    OLD    TIME    MURDER    TRIAL.  293 

was  kindly  looked  upon,  and  sympathized  with,  as  the 
defence.  Nearly  three  da}-s  had  passed  in  the  trial. 
Numerous  questions  had  arisen ;  a  great  many  wit 
nesses  had  been  examined,  and  yet  through  all  the 
struggle  he  had  steadily  gained  on  the  crowd,  court, 
and  bar.  Modest,  quiet,  cool,  clear,  ready,  with 
out  having  thus  far  exhibited  brilliant  qualities,  with 
unceasing  good-nature,  and  the  bearing  of  a  gentleman, 
he  had  all  the  time  impressed  them  with  the  idea  of 
an}-  amount  of  power  and  energy  in  reserve,  which 
they  expected  to  see  developed. 

When  the  State  closed,  Fred  drew  a  long  breath 
of  profound  relief.  lie  was  still  anxious,  but  without 
doubt  of  the  result.  He  knew  the  proverbial  uncer 
tainty  of  juries,  but  had  studied  those  before  him,  and 
had  already  received  from  two  or  three,  unconscious 
glances  of  that  intelligence  which  a  look  will  flash 
from  one  mind  to  another.  Without  any  opening  state 
ment,  he  called  his  witness. 

When  Dr.  Ackly  took  the  stand,  there  was  a  gen 
eral  movement  to  gain  a  good  sight  of  the  famous  sur 
geon  and  somewhat  distinguished  scientific  witness, 
certainly  the  most  remarkable,  of  his  day,  in  the  West. 
Slightly  above  the  medium  height,  and  large,  with  a 
little  stoop  in  the  shoulders,  a  strong-marked  face, 
dark,  with  black  eyes  that  could  flash  out  the  original 
ingrained  savage,  or  melt  with  the  tenderness  of  the 
enthroned  woman,  who  sometimes  ruled  them,  which 
were  overhung  with  heavy  brows,  while  from  his  fore 
head  was  swept  back  hcav}r  masses  of  coarse  black 
hair.  His  manner  was  careless  and  free  ;  a  man  of 
little  culture,  of  commanding  talents,  iron  nerve,  and 


294  THE    PORTRAIT. 

a  cool,  shrewd,  artful,  artless  method  of  dealing  and 
swearing,  at  once  impressive,  conclusive,  and  exceed 
ingly  dangerous.  Like  other  distinguished  medical  ex 
perts,  he  was  to  be  retained,  and  his  evidence  was  an 
ingenuous  argument  under  oath.  Nothing  was  ever 
more  simple  and  plain,  and  as  to  nothing  did  he  ever 
seem  so  utterly  indifferent  as  the  wants  or  wishes -of 
the  side  which  called  him  ;  nothing  was  often  so  help 
ful  as  the  seemingly  unconscious  blows  that  he  ap 
peared  to  give  his  own  side.  He  was  an  intense 
hater,  capable  of  narrow,  mean,  and  cruel  prejudices, 
and  wielded  a  tongue  sharp,  bitter,  and  caustic,  as  well 
as  soft,  soothing,  and  seductive. 

When  called,  he  lazily  arose,  moved  forward,  and 
declined  to  be  seated  ;  stated  his  profession  and  res 
idence  ;  he  had  had  some  little  experience  in  surgery  ; 
was  a  professor  in  the  Ohio  Medical  College,  etc. ;  saw 
the  body  of  the  deceased  ;  it  was  disinterred,  and  found 
in  a  state  of  good  preservation.  He  went  on  to  say  that, 
assisted  by  his  distinguished  friends  Dr.  Bond,  of  "War 
ren,  and  Dr.  Jones,  of  Ravenna,  he  had  made  a  partial 
examination.  They  removed  the  entire  scalp  from  the 
cranium,  and  dissected  away  the  soft  parts  of  the  neck, 
so  as  to  la}*  bare  the  spinal  column  ;  no  injury  of  any 
kind  had  been  sustained  by  the  bones  of  the  cranium  ; 
no  fracture,  and  hardly  an  abrasion  of  the  scalp ;  the 
skull  was  removed,  and  the  condition  of  the  brain  dem 
onstrated  that  no  serious  injury  had  fallen  upon  the 
head  ;  the  neck  had  been  dislocated,  broken,  as  people 
say,  and  that  had  caused  death,  which  followed  instan 
taneously  ;  it  was  not  produced  by  a  blow  on  the  head  ; 
could  not  have  been  by  any  possibility  ;  it  was  undoubt- 


AN    OLD    TIME    MURDER    TRIAL.  295 

edly  occasioned  by  the  man's  being  suddenly  and  vio 
lently  thrown  from  his  horse,  so  as  to  fall  and  receive 
the  whole  weight  of  the  body  on  the  head  and  neck.  A 
horse  suddenly  rearing,  so  as  to  give  an  increase  of 
height,  and  throwing  a  man  clear  from  the  saddle, 
would  be  equal  to  the  injury.  The  man  was  found  a 
a  little  at  the  left  of  the  road,  through  the  woods  ;  as 
he  was  riding  along  cold  and  weaiy,  something  at  the 
right,  and  nearly  in  front  of  his  horse,  had  frightened 
the  animal,  when  he  reared,  turned  suddenly,  partly  on 
his  hind  feet,  to  the  left,  throwing  his  rider  helplessly 
upon  his  head,  and  breaking  his  neck,  and  where  he 
fell,  he  was  found.  If  care  had  been  used,  when  the 
snow  melted,  the  tracks  of  the  horse  would  have  been 
found  where  he  turned  and  ran  back  ;  the  imprint  of 
the  man's  head  in  the  ground  would  have  been  dis 
covered,  and  the  profession  would  have  lost  the  bril 
liant  and  useful  example  of  its  two  members  who  swore 
that  the  man  was  killed  b}'  blows  on  his  head  from  a 
bludgeon,  in  the  hands  of  a  man  on  the  ground,  which 
had  fractured  his  skull. 

Dr.  Ackly  was  put  under  a  close  cross-examination, 
—  as  close  as  he  ever  permitted  himself  to  endure  ;  for 
he  had  great  power  in  good-naturedly  holding  his 
cross-questioner  at  long  range,  just  as  suited  the  exi 
gencies  of  his  case. 

He  was  asked  whether  he  did  not  think  that  if  a  man, 
the  defendant  for  instance,  had  suddenly  sprang  at  the 
horse  it  might  not  have  frightened  him  so  as  to  have 
produced  the  result  named. 

Fred  asked  "  if  that  was  a  question  for  an  expert." 
Ackly  turned  and  scanned  Jake  with  apparent  care  for 


20 G  THE    PORTRAIT. 

a  moment,  and  answered  "  that  he  thought  that  he  might 
scare  a  horse,  possibly.  Horses  had  their  own  views  of 
men  "  —  a  laugh  ;  but,  lingering  a  moment,  "'  he  thought 
that  if  even  Jake  Green  had  been  there  to  kill  the  man, 
he  would  not  have  commenced  by  trying  to  induce  the 
horse  to  run  away  with  him."  This  produced  a  sensa 
tion  marked  and  distinct.  When  Ackl}-  left  the  stand, 
the  chances  for  the  edification  of  the  people,  by  a  pub 
lic  execution,  were  much  diminished.  In  his  testimony 
as  to  the  injuries  to  the  deceased,  he  was  fully  sus 
tained  b}'  the  two  doctors  who  assisted  him. 

Fred  called  several  witnesses,  who  established  the 
fact  that  the  snow  fell  during  the  early  part  of  the 
night  in  question,  certainly  before  midnight ;  that  Jake 
had  been  about  Mantua  the  latter  part  of  Februaiy  and 
March,  and  that  no  one  had  known  of  his  having  been 
in  Kirtland  ;  that  he  had  been  into  Middlefield  and 
Parkman,  in  Geauga  county,  on  business,  and  that  late  in 
the  night  of  the  homicide  he  had  called  at  a  small 
tavern,  kept  by  one  Blair,  within  four  or  five  miles  of 
the  scene  of  the  death,  to  inquire  his  way,  going  south 
erly,  and  was  told  that  when  he  reached  the  east  and 
west  road  so  often  named,  he  must  turn,  take  it,  and 
going  east,  take  the  first  right-hand  road  ;  that  it  was 
snowing  then, — that  he  stopped  long  enough  to  get 
supper,  when  he  went  on,  seeming  to  be  in  a  hurry. 
Thus  a  considerable  time  was  left,  during  which  he  was 
not  accounted  for.  He  had  evidently  traversed  that 
right-hand  road  the  next  morning,  and  very  early ; 
where  he  was  during  the  intervening  time,  was  not 
made  very  apparent. 

Fred  also  called  winesses  who  sustained  the  stat.e- 


AN    OLD    TIME    MURDER   TRIAL.  297 

ment  of  "Wansor,  that  Oliver  Olney  was  still  living,  had 
been  at  Kirtlancl,  and  had,  as  Avas  supposed,  started 
west  for  Nauvoo  ;  that  he  was  a  man  five  feet  and  about 
ten  inches  in  height,  and  that  the  deceased,  by  measure 
ment,  was  barely  five  feet  seven.  He  also  showed  the 
distance  from  where  the  bod}*  was  found,  back  to  the 
corner,  to  be  nearly  a  half  mile,  and  that  the  track 
claimed  to  be  Jake's  came  down  from  the  west  to  the 
corner  of  the  road  in  the  woods,  and  then  turned  south. 
Then  he  rested  his  case  confidently,  but  anxiously.  Did 
mortal  lawyer  ever  try  a  case  that  he  was  not  anxious 
about,  with  an  anxiety  which  nothing  but  the  final 
verdict  in  his  favor  could  relieve? 

The  counsel  for  the  State  had  no  idea  of  abandoning 
the  case.  They  had  commenced  the  trial  with  a  flourish 
of  the  confidence  which  they  really  felt.  Their  expe 
rience  in  such  trials  had  been  small,  and  the  prepara 
tion  of  the  prosecuting  attorney  was  very  faulty.  Their 
case  had  crumbled  away  in  their  hands,  and  had 
received  two  or  three  severe  and  perhaps  fatal  blows. 
They  had  also,  as  was  natural,  under-estimated  their 
youthful  opponents,  and  had  suffered  for  it,  as  lawyers 
sometimes  do.  On  the  coming  in  of  the  court  at  one 
o'clock  of  the  fourth  day,  their  best  advocate  arose  for 
the  final  argument  to  the  jury. 

Middle-aged,  of  fine  person,  good  face,  and  not 
without  skill  as  an  advocate,  with  an  ingenious  way  of 
grouping  things,  and  a  hard,  dry  way  of  making  points, 
Mr.  Mack  arose  to  present  the  case  for  the  State,  and 
i  hush  came  over  the  immense  and  expectant  audience, 
vhich  thronged  the  court-room  of  that  Avarm,  early 
June  afternoon. 


298  THE    POKTRAIT. 

He  began  by  amplifying  the  importance  and  gravity 
of  the  case.  A  murder  had  been  committed  in  their 
midst.  A  young  man  arose  early  one  morning,  and  on 
his  way  to  his  work  had  stumbled  upon  a  corpse,  stark, 
under  the  snow,  —  a  man  done  to  death  by  murderers, 
who  had  stolen  upon,  surrounded  and  murdered  him  in  the 
woods,  alone  in  the  darkness  ;  and  of  this  the  jnrj7  were 
to  inquire  and  judge.  For  the  result  the}T  must  be  re 
sponsible.  If  it  were  of  no  moment,  if  life  were  of  no 
consequence,  the  defendant  could  be  acquitted,  and  the 
highways  given  over  to  bandits,  to  waylaying  assassins. 

A  man,  a  stranger,  had  been  slain,  no  matter  by  what 
immediate  means,  so  long  as  it  was  made  to  appear 
that  it  was  by  violence,  —  whether  the  man  was  knocked 
off  his  horse  or  thrown  off,  if  by  the  agency  of  the 
defendant,  it  was  all  the  law  required.  He  was  a 
stranger,  and  men  called  him  Olney,  —  Oliver  Olney  ; 
that  was  his  name  ;  he  was  known  by  no  other.  And 
that  was  all  that  was  necessary.  No  matter  though 
there  may  have  been  fifty  Oliver  Olney's.  Besides,  it 
was  a  man,  and  not  a  name,  that  was  slain. 

Undoubtedly,  several  were  concerned  in  the  mur 
der,  all  of  whom  had  escaped  but  one ;  and  it  was 
no  matter  what  part  he  took,  whether  he  struck,  or 
watched,  or  merely  bore  away  the  plunder,  he  was 
guilty  of  the  murder.  That  there  were  several,  was 
proven  by  showing  one  man  following  on  the  track, 
while  another  was  seen  approaching  the  place  of  the 
final  hunt,  from  one  side,  as  unquestionabl}'  others  did, 
though  unseen  from  other  sides.  The  defendant  was 
proven, — -it  was  admitted  that  he  was  within  less 
than  a  half  mile  of  where  the  body  was  found,  and  at 


AN    OLD    TIME    MURDER   TRIAL.  299 

a  time  awfully  near  the  fatal  hour.  Nobody  knows 
when  the  man  met  his  murderers.  It  may  have  been 
early  in  the  night, —  suppose  it  was; — the  defendant 
was  seen  approaching  the  same  place  early  enough  to 
have  met  him.  And  if  it  is  said  that  Jake  Green  never 
was  east  of  the  corner  of  the  south  road,  what  proof 
is  there  of  that?  Wiry,  that  lie  made  tracks  early  the 
next  morning  in  the  road  leading  from  that  corner 
south.  Where  was  he  that  night?  and  what  was  he 
doing?  where  did  he  stay  ?  with  whom?  He  was  not  all 
night  walking  from  Blair's  tavern  to  the  corner,  and 
where  was  Olne}"  killed  ?  He  may  have  been  killed 
west  of  the  corner,  and  his  body  carried  to  the  point 
where  it  was  found,  or  Jake  may  have  mounted  his 
horse  and  ridden  back,  and  ingeniously  fastened  it 
where  it  la}'.  He  would  know  better  than  to  escape  on 
the  horse  of  the  man  whom  he  had  just  murdered,  and 
then  he  would  have  walked  back  to  the  corner  on  the 
new  snow,  all  innocently,  and  take  the  road  he  had 
inquired  for. 

And  what  became  of  the  portmanteau?  Somebody 
stole  and  rifled  that ;  who  was  it  ?  No  man  was  known 
to  be  in  those  woods  that  night  but  Jake.  If  he  did 
not  take  it,  who  did?  It  was  not,  after  long  search, 
found,  and  when  Jake  was  arrested,  he  denied  that  he 
had  been  in  that  locality  at  all.  If  innocent,  why 
make  this  denial  ?  Then  remembering  all,  he  became 
dumb,  could  not  speak,  would  not  speak,  and  did  not 
speak  ;  and  then  this  fatal  document,  which  he  thrust 
to  fearful!}-  and  foolishly  from  him;  we  have  not 
proved  that  it  was  ever  in  the  hands  of  the  murdered 
nan,  have  we?  Wlv)-,then,  did  Jake  in  mortal  fear  cast 


300  THE    PORTRAIT. 

it  from  him?  lie  knew  what  it  was.  He  knew  where 
he  got  it.  He  had  murdered .  a  man  for  it,  and  was 
fleeing  with  it.  He  knows  where  he  got  it,  and  can  tell ; 
and  if  he  did  not  take  it  from  the  dead  body  of  the 
murdered  man,  I  demand  that  he  tell  us  where  he  did 
get  it.  Of  course  he  is  silent.  His  act  and  conduct 
are  a  confession  that  he  murdered  the  man  and  robbed 
his  body,  and  then  fled  with  his  booty.  And  such  a 
document !  It  has  not  been  read  ;  I  may  not  read  it ; 
the  confession  of  a  crime,  a  murder  and  a  robbery  by 
his  father,  and  he,  the  son,  committing  another  murder 
and  robbery  to  secure  it,  and  of  all  the  unheard-of  mar 
vels  in  courts  of  justice,  that  this  young  and  accomplished 
lawyer  should  be  here,  his  defender  !  I  stand  in  the 
presence  of  these  facts,  and  of  this  man  so  strangely 
brought  together,  in  utter  amazement,  almost  in  awe, 
and  I  demand  an  explanation  of  him ;  this  man  is 
here  defending  his  enemy  —  the  son  of  his  worst  encm}', 
enemies  alike  of  him  and  his  race  —  of  the  human 
race.  Then,  with  a  happy  and  forcible  peroration,  he 
sat  down. 

The  above  shows  the  course  of  the  argument,  as  well 
as  its  spirit.  The  speech  was  happy  and  forcible,  and 
Fred  felt  that  it  had  made  a  dangerous  impression  upon 
the  jury,  as  it  certainly  had  upon  the  crowd. 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 

FRED'S   ARGUMENT. 

references  to  himself  surprised  Fred  somewhat, 
-L  and  he  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  some  of 
them ;  but  looking  at  everything  as  an  advocate 
during  a  trial,  lie  supposed  that  they  were  made  by 
counsel  in  the  exaggerating  heat  of  argument ;  not 
unwilling  to  produce  an  effect,  and  not  scrupulous  as 
to  the  means  employed.  He  would,  however,  seek  an 
explanation  and  an  exploration  of  the  Green  paper 
after  the  trial,  and  dismissed  both  for  a  time. 

The  crowd  in  attendance  had  been  constantly  increas 
ing,  and  on  the  day  of  final  argument  it  had  become 
dense  almost  beyond  endurance.  Groat  anxiety  was 
felt  to  hear  the  speeches,  and  especially  that  of  Fred. 
His  reputation  as  a  speaker,  and  the  favor  which  his 
conduct  of  the  case  and  manners  had  won  him,  made 
his  speech  the  event  of  the  trial  to  be  looked  forward 
to.  There  was  a  great  influx  of  ladies.  Several  occu 
pied  the  bench  of  the  court ;  others  ,sat  on  the  clerk's 
table,  and  still  others  in  t\vo  condensed  rows  between 
;he  bar-table  and  the  raised  jury-box,  so  as  to  be 
exactly  between  the  speaker  and  jury. 

In  the  moment's  buzz  that  followed  the  speech  of 
(301) 


302  THE    PORTRAIT. 

Mr.  M:ick,  and  as  the  crowd  was  readjusting  itself, 
a,  little  movement,  a  rising  and  changing  of  seats,  and 
a  rustle  of  draperies  by  the  ladies,  who  might  be  heard 
fanning  and  lisping  from  every  part  of  the  packed 
room,  drew  Fred's  attention  to  the  end  of  the  table  at 
his  left ;  and  there,  within  two  j-ards  of  him,  of  all  the 
mortals  of  the  lower  world,  or  immortals  of  the  upper, 
sat  Belle  !  His  brain  whirled,  and  he  grasped  the  bar- 
table  in  a  spasm.  But  there  she  was,  —  not  cold,  dis 
tant  and  repellant,  as  when  he  sat  by  her  last,  but 
radiant,  triumphant  and  happy.  There  was  the  old 
light  that  flashed  over  the  icy  waters,  that  inspired 
him  on  the  speaker's  stand,  and  which  now  had  some 
thing  more,  —  something  to  assure,  inspire,  and,  as  it 
seemed,  to  reward.  She  was  accompanied  by  Maud 
and  a  beautiful  matronly  woman,  whom  Fred  did  not 
remember  ever  to  have  seen  before.  A  moment,  —  and 
he  arose,  calm,  clear  and  strong,  inspired  and  elevated, 
for  his  final  effort.  He  stood  for  an  instant  under  a 
weight  of  sensations,  not  favorable  to  rapid  or  even 
easy  speech,  and  hesitated  and  faltered  with  emotions 
that  interrupted  the  communication  between  thought 
and  utterance.  None  but  an  advocate  can  understand 
the  mingled  feelings  with  which  he  arises  in  a  momen 
tous  case,  and  no  advocate  has  ever  described  or 
expressed  them,  and  perhaps  they  cannot  be  expressed. 
Fred's  voice  was  low,  and  a  little  plaintive,  and  hun 
dreds  of  heads  bent  sidewise  to  catch  his  accents,  lie 
never,  in  after  life,  when  famous  as  an  advocate  and 
orator,  was  a  man  of  exordiums  and  perorations.  Some 
simple  preliminary  matter,  bearing  directly  upon  the 
subject  to  be  discussed,  and  then  the  case  itself,  and 


FRED'S  ARGUMENT.  303 

when  that  was  presented,  he  usualh"  stopped  rather 
than  closed. 

When  his  voice  was  connectedly  caught,  he  was  say 
ing  something  about  law  and  its  sac-redness.  "  Both 
parties  were  struggling  for  its  supremacy,  the  State 
appealing  to  it  for  punishment,  and  he  for  protection  ; 
'and  it  was  to  be  vindicated  as  an  avenger  or  venerated 
as  a  protector,  as  the  jury  should  find  that  certain  facts 
existed  or  were  doubtful.  The  most  precious  thing 
to  the  law  was  a  human  life ;  the  thing  it  most 
abhorred,  a  murderer.  The  earth  was  of  consequence 
because  of  human  existence  upon  it,  and  things  became 
property  only  because  they  were  man's  ;  and  as  the  life 
of  a  man  was  approached,  things  grew  sacred,  and  its 
citadel  was  inviolable.  As  it  was  the  gravest  known 
crime  to  take  life  without  law,  so  when  the  law,  which 
held  life  to  be  so  holy,  was  through  mistake  or  care 
lessness  made  the  very  means  of  violating,  instead  of 
protecting,  it,  the  crime  was  immeasurably  aggravated. 
The  State  demanded  a  punishment,  and  by  the  law 
was  to  establish  with  moral  certainty  that  it  was 
entitled  to  have  it  inflicted.  The  presumption  that  a 
man  was  innocent  was  not  an  idle  formula,  floating  in 
the  legal  atmosphere,  but  an  impregnable  barrier, 
assuring  safety,  until  it  was  swept  away  by  evidence, 
and  then  the  defendant  onh"  fell  by  having  the  ground 
cut  from  under  his  feet.  He  was  not  to  be  convicted 
of  a  crime  because  he  failed  to  prove  his  innocence. 
That  was  the  reverse  of  the  rule.  It  was  not  sufficient 
to  accuse  of  murder,  and  then  hang  him  if  he  failed  to 
show  where  he  was  on  a  given  night.  Nor  could  he  be 
called  upon  to  account  for  a  given  thing  until  it  was 


304  THE    PORTRAIT. 

shown  that  at  some  time,  somewhere,  somebody  else 
had  held  the  possession  of  it.  A  man,  on  sudden  sur 
prise,  may  equivocate,  and  not  be  guilty  of  murder ; 
and  if  folly  is  conclusive  evidence  of  crime,  how  easy 
to  find  a  criminal !  "  —  with  a  glance  at  the  State's  attor- 
nc}'.  "It  is  a  habit  of  the  human  mind,  when  auglit 
occurs  that  it  cannot  at  once  understand,  to  attribute 
it  to  the  supernatural,  as  it  is  its  weakness  to  believe 
the  most  heinous  charge  without  proof.  It  is  only 
when  it  partly  understands  that  it  investigates,  and 
demands  evidence  only  in  trivial  cases.  If  this  Jake 
was  charged  with  a  petty  larcen}'  from  this  man,  still 
living,  even  the  pi'osecuting  attorney  would  have  ascer 
tained  his  innocence.  But  when  the  man  fell  from  his 
horse  in  the  night,  he  asks  you  to  believe  that  Jake 
Green  killed  him."  These  sentences,  and  many  more 
which  at  a  grasp  epitomized  the  case,  were  delivered  in 
a  happ3r  manner,  and  with  great  force  and  energy,  and 
shattered  it  ere  the  advocate  had  fully  entered  upon 
its  discussion. 

"The  grand  jury,  by  this  indictment,  accuse  Jacob 
Green  of  killing  Oliver  Olney,  in  the  county  of  Ma- 
honing,  and  is  to  prove  each  allegation  without  doubt 
or  hesitation." 

lie  then  recalled  the  evidence,  and  said  "  he  believed 
that  not  a  word  of  proof  had  been  given  to  show  that 
the  scene  of  the  death  was  within  the  limits  of  the 
count}-." 

The  prosecuting  attorney  started  up,  and  said  "  he 
•was  certainly  mistaken.  He  had  proved  it." 

"  If  you  have,  you  can  tell  by  whom.  If  the  gen 
tlemen,  or  the  court,  or  any  member  of  the  jury,  can 


FRED'S  ARGUMENT.  305 

recall  a  word  of  proof  bearing  on  this  formal  and  also 
material  point,  he  would  thank  them  to  remind  him  of 
it." 

Then  he  sat  down  for  a  moment.  A  whispering  of 
the  State's  counsel,  and  among  the  members  of  the 
court,  with  an  overhauling  of  notes,  was  followed  by 
silence. 

By  the  Court.  —  "What  do  you  propose,  Mr.  War 
den?" 

"  Merely  to  show  that  there  is  not  even  the  form  of 
a  case  here.  I  do  not  wish  it  to  go  off  on  this  point. 
I  will  presume  or  admit  for  the  defendant  that  the 
locus  is  within  the  limits  of  your  count}-,  gentlemen, 
that  you  ma}'  have  the  genuine  satisfaction  of  saying, 
upon  your  oaths,  that  the  defendant  is  innocent.  He  is 
accused  of  the  murder  of  Oliver  Olney ;  not  a  man 
whose  name  is  to  the  jurors  unknown  —  any  man  who 
may  go  by  an}'  name  —  but  Oliver  Olney ;  not  some 
man  whose  body  after  death  was,  in  the  absence  of  all 
knowledge  of  the  name  he  bore  while  living,  called 
Oliver  Olncy ;  but  Oliver  Olney  himself,  and  not 
another,  and  no  other  was  murdered. 

"  If  the  court  please,  I  make  this  point  here,  and 
have  the  authorities  which  I  will  cite." 

The  Court.  —  "  It  is  not  necessary,  Mr.  Warden  ;  the 
point  is  well  taken,  and  so  the  court  will  rule." 

Resuming,  —  "  The  theory  of  the  State  is  that  Oliver 
Olney,  a  native,  and  late  a  resident  of  this  part  of  the 
State,  was  waylaid  and  murdered,  and  one-man  swears 
that  he  knew  Olney  in  life  ;  that  he  saw  this  bod}', 
and  thinks  it  was  Oliver  Olney,  but  it  may  have  been 
20 


306  THE    PORTRAIT. 

his  brother  John  ;  while  others  heard  the  body  called 
Oliver  Olney's  body. 

'•We  proved  by  the  State's  -witness,  TTanser,  that 
the  Oliver  Olney  was  alive  since  this  death  occurred, 
and  by  half  a  dozen  that  lie  left  Kirtland  for  Nauvoo. 
We  prove  him  to  have  been  five  feet  ten,  while  this 
body,  b}*  actual  measurement,  falls  short  of  that  by 
three  inches,  and  the  State  three  leagues  of  sustaining 
its  case.  This  is  not  a  formal  matter,  but  one  of  vital 
substance.  You  are  asked  to  sa}-  that  this  man  was 
Oliver  Olney,  when  not  another  man  has  said  it,  when 
six  or  seven  say  that  he  was  not.  You  are  asked  to  be 
certain  in  this  point,  when  the  one  witness  for  the  State 
is  uncertain.  You  are  asked  to  swear  by  your  verdict 
that  you  know  more  than  all  the  witnesses  ;  not  only 
that,  but  that  they  are  all  wrong.  Otherwise,  this 
defendant  must  go  acquit.  I  might  rest  this  defence 
here,  but  will  not. 

"  How  came  this  bod}*  to  be  nobody,  but  a  body. 
The  State  says,  in  this  indictment,  that  Jake  killed 
him  03-  fracturing  his  skull  with  a  bludgeon  ;  that  he 
got  himself  suspended  over  the  road  with  a  war-club, 
and  when  the  deceased  rode  along  under  him,  he  made 
a  downward  blow  and  crushed  his  skull.  But  my 
brother  Mack,  abandoning  his  two  M.D.'s,  assumes 
the  equally  plausible  theory  that  the  defendant  scared 
him  to  death ;  that,  wanting  to  kill  him  so  as  to  rob 
him,  he  sprang  up  in  his  path  and  frightened  his  horse, 
so  that  ma3-hap  he  would  turn  and  carry  him  out  of  his 
reach,  but  he  happened  to  throw  him  and  kill  him  ;  and 
that  then,  while  he  had  eveiy  reason  to  suppose  that  the 
body's  property  was  with  or  on  it,  he  sprang  into  the 


FRED'S  ARGUMENT.  307 

vacant  saddle,  •without  touching  the  body,  and  rode  off; 
and  then  having  rode  off,  he  prudently  waited  for  a  snow 
storm,  so  that  his  tracks  might  certainly  be  seen,  and 
then  went  tracking  back,  in  the  most  sensible  way  in  the 
world,  to  the  very  scene  of  his  crime,  for  the  very  pur 
pose,  undoubtedly,  of  being  suspected  and  detected.  He 
has  spoken  of  marvels,  but  failed  to  enumerate  among 
them  the  most  wonderful  of  all.  We  have  proven 
that  this  man  was  not  killed  by  a  blow  on  the  head  ; 
that  he  never  received  a  blow  on  any  part  of  his  per 
son  ;  that  he  died  of  dislocation  of  the  neck,  which 
could  be  produced  only  by  being  thrown  from  his 
horse  ;  that  he  died  where  he  fell,  and  lay  untouched, 
and  that  there,  in  the  darkness  of  the  night,  the  heav 
ens  kindly  distilled  over  him  their  pall  of  beautiful 
snow,  placing  their  pure  white  seal  upon  him,  to  attest 
that  the  cause  of  his  death  was  innocent !  " 

This  sentence  was  pronounced  in  a  fervid  manner, 
and  produced  a  sensation.  "Murdered?  How?  By 
whom?  By  a  man  who  followed  him  on  foot  and 
would  never  have  overtaken  him,  and  would  approach 
him  from  behind;  by  a  man  who  intercepted  him, — 
who  knew  that  he  would  be  there,  and  when.  It  was 
in  a  deep  forest,  ere  the  snow  fell,  and  inky  dark. 
Who  would  know  him,  or  how  would  they  know  him? 
Oh,  gentlemen,  the  darkness  of  this  case  is  palpable ! 
'Mid  uncertainty  and  doubt  you  are  expected  to  grope 
about  in  it.  and  seize  and  strangle  this  unfortunate 
defendant.  Murdered?  for  what?  Why  was  not  the 
body  searched  and  robbed?  For  a  paper?  Who  knew 
that  he  had  a  paper?  You  are  asked  to  assume 
that  he  had  a  paper,  and  then  to  assume  that  some- 


308  THE    PORTRAIT. 

body  knew  that  ho  had  ;  that  the}'  knew  he  would 
pass  this  place  at  that  hour,  that  they  would  know 
him,  and  that  they  could  scare  his  horse,  and  that 
he  would  throw  him  off,  and  that  that  would  break 
his  neck.  Then  after  having  performed  all  these  prob 
able  things  the  murderer  would  run  off  without  touch 
ing  the  bod}'  of  his  victim,  on  which  the  paper  would 
probably  be.  A  murderer  would  not  have  run  the  risk 
of  a  failure  in  an}'  of  these.  He  would  have  been 
armed  with  a  gun  or  pistol ;  he  would  have  run  no 
risk,  he  would  have  shot  him  —  shot  him  on  his  horse 
—  and  then  searched  and  robbed  him.  There  is  no 
pretence  that  he  could  have  been  robbed  save  by  the 
further  pretence  that  he  had  a  document ;  and  in  the 
utter  absence  of  evidence  that  he  had  this  document, 
you  are  to  assume  that  he  had  it,  that  someboby  knew 
that  he  had  it,  and  .that  they  wanted  it,  and  their  want 
was  so  imperious  that  they  would  commit  a  murder  for  it. 
"  Who  was  this  man  ?  Nobody  knows.  Where  did  he 
come  from?  Nobody  knows.  Where  was  he  going  to? 
Nobody  knows.  Where  did  he  get  this  paper?  Nobody 
knows.  What  was  lie  to  do  with  it  ?  Nobody  knows. 
Does  anybody  know  that  this  body  ever  had  that  paper? 
No.  What  is  this  marvellous  document,  that  am'body 
should  want  it?  We  are  not  told  even  that.  Had  it 
been  of  value,  and  pertinent  to  this  case,  the  court 
would  have  laid  it  before  yon.  It  was  ruled  out  as 
incompetent,  irrelevant,  impertinent,  and  yet  it  is  the 
only  point  in  the  case.  The  only  material  thing  in 
it  was  ruled  out  of  it ;  and  yet  we  are  to  deal  with  it, 
and  with  nothing  else.  We  arc  not  to  tiy  this  case  on 
the  evidence  that  we  have,  but  on  that  which  we  have 


FRED'S  ARGUMENT.  309 

not  heard.  What  is  this  thing,  this  marvel  of  marvels, 
that  winds  all  about  us,  and  enfolds  even  the  counsel 
for  the  defendant?  Oh,  gentlemen,  there  are  some 
things  that  I  have  so  wanted  to  know  —  "  This  was  a 
great  cry  of  heart-anguish  that  uttered  itself,  that  men 
who  heard  it  never  forgot.  He  rescued  himself.  "  We 
are  told  that  it  is  a  confession  of  murder,  made  fourteen 
years  ago  by  the  defendant's  father,  and  that  the  de 
fendant  murdered  another  man  to  get  it !  What  did  he 
want  it  for  ?  Of  what  use  could  it  be  to  him  ?  What 
could  he  do  with  it  ?  What  harm  could  it  do  his 
father?  His  father  was  dead;  the  State  has  proven 
that,  and  he  must  have  known  it. 

"But  if  it  was  of  the  fatal  character  claimed,  then, 
indeed,  the  possession  of  it  by  Jake  would  of  itself  be 
sufficient,  when  surprised  with  it,  to  have  caused  him 
to  speak  in  the  suspicious  manner  that  he  did.  But 
the  gentleman  demands  that  Jake  be  compelled  to  ac 
count  for  this,  or  that  he  go  and  hang  for  murder. 
Charge  a  man  with  mui'der,  and,  if  he  don't  prove  him 
self  innocent,  hang  him  !  By  all  means,  gentlemen ! 
I  would,  were  I  you  !  If  I  must  still  treat  this  thing, 
which  is  not  a  thing,  as  in  the  case  when  it  is  out, 
may  I  not  inquire  that  as  between  Jake  and  an  utterly 
unknown  stranger,  who,  while  on  his  wa}r  from  no  place 
to  nowhere,  fell  into  nothing,  which  of  them  would  be 
the  most  likely  to  have  a  paper  made  by  the  father  of 
Jake? 

"  Once  and  again,  as  nobody  knew  this  man,  and  as 
Jake  cannot  be  presumed  to  have  known  more  of  him 
than  did  others,  how  could  he  have  known  that  the  un 
known  had  this  or  any  paper?  or  that  he  ever  was 


310  THE    PORTRAIT. 

alive,  so  that  he  could  be  murdered  anywhere,  at  any 
time,  by  anybody? 

"  Your  Honors,  on  the  matter  of  this  document,  as  it 
was  excluded,  I  ask  you  to  say  to  the  jury  in  your  final 
charge  that  it  is  not  and  cannot  be  an  item  of  proof 
that  can  in  any  way,  for  any  purpose,  be  considered  by 
the  jun"  in  forming  any  opinion  upon  any  part  of  this 
case.  And  I  also  ask  pardon  for  asking  this  instruc 
tion." 

By  the  Court.  —  "  We  will  hear  the  other  side  on  that 
proposition,  if  they  think  that  they  can  combat  your 
claim." 

Resuming,  —  "  It  is  the  theory  of  the  theoretical  gen 
tleman  that  Jake  followed  this  man  from  Nauvoo.  It 
is  not  proven  that  this  man  ever  was  in  Nauvoo,  while 
it  was  proven  that  Jake  had  not  been  there  for  years. 
There  was  proof  that  this  man,  or  some  one  who  re 
sembled  him,  was  seen  near  Kirtland,  and  travelled 
along,  and  entered  the  wood  from  the  west,  at  about 
dark  ;  but  it  is  not  proven  that  the  man  found  was  that 
man,  or  that  the  horse  found  was  the  horse  which  he 
rode ;  nor  yet  that  the  dead  man  rode  any  horse  ;  nor 
that  he  was  not  travelling  west,  instead  of  east.  But 
suppose  he  was  the  man,  —  if  he  was  followed,  who 
followed  him  ?  '  Jake  Green,'  answers  the  eloquent 
Mack,  —  but  Jake  Green  came  from  the  North,  and 
could  not  have  followed  him.  '  But  it  is  the  theory 
of  the  State,'  cries  the  gentleman,  '  that  several  were 
concerned  in  it,  —  and,  like  the  other  assumings  of  the 
same  high  authority,  there  is  not  a  particle  of  proof  to 
sustain  it.  What  became  of  the  following  man  ?  Jake 
was  not  seen  with  him ;  had  no  concert  or  connection 


FRED'S  ARGUMENT.  311 

with  him  ;  did  not  know  the  man  who  died,  nor  where 
he  was,  or  would  be.  lie  had  business,  as  was  shown  ; 
was  at  Blair's,  and  left  there  while  it  was  snowing.  The 
man  was  found  on  the  bare  ground,  covered  with  snow, 
—  with  snow  as  deep  over  him  as  on  an  adjoining  log ; 
so  that  he  must  have  been  killed  before  the  snow  began 
to  fall,  and  when  Jake  was  five  miles  away,  at  the  short 
est  distance  ;  and  yet  I  am  to  argue  that  he  did  not 
kill  this  man,  who  was  thrown  from  his  horse  several 
hours  before  Green,  if  he  was  driven  forward  by  mur 
derous  malice,  could  by  possibility  have  reached  the 
place. 

"  When  at  Blair's,  he  inquired  his  wa}r ;  and  the  roads 
he  travelled  were  pointed  out  to  him,  and  he  pursued 
them.  The  elements  prove  this.  The  attesting  snow 
fell  to  receive  and  retain  his  track  ;  and  it  comes  here 
a  witness  from  the  hand  of  God,  an  angel  white-robed 
and  pure,  to  declare  that  this  charge  is  false  and  mon 
strous."  A  murmur,  almost  a  break  out  of  applause, 
followed  these  sentences. 

"  But  we  are  told  that  Jake  was  somewhere  that  night, 
and  was  doing  something.  It  did  not  take  half  his  time 
to  pass  from  Blair's  to  the  turn  in  the  road,  and  make 
that  turn  where  he  did  make  it ;  and  you  are  asked  to 
imagine  that  he  filled  the  spare  hours  with  wandering 
about  that  desolate  and  haunted  wood,  in  the  darkness 
of  the  night,  a  goblin  damned,  hunting  up  and  wringing 
the  necks  of  belated  travellers,  and  galloping  about  stray 
horses  with  an  extemporized  troop  of  weird  wizards,  for 
the  pure  malice,  the  exquisite  fun  of  the  thing,  and  that, 
having  gorged  his  maw  with  murder,  he  attaches  his 
horse,  elfin-like,  to  a  root,  a  devil-snag  from  the  world 


312  THE    PORTRAIT. 

below,  and  resumed  his  man's  shape  and  journey,  after 
having  conjured  down  a  snow  to  hide  his  victim  and  his 
guilt. 

"  '  Where  was  he?'  demands  the  gentleman.  Sure 
enough,  make  the  demand  when  you  know  that  this 
indictment  makes  him  a  mute.  Oh,  gentlemen,  in  this 
rude  wilderness  world  of  uncharity  and  inhospitality  — 
in. our  sparsely-populated  forest  country  of  straggling 
settlements  and  intervening  wood  —  shall  the  belated, 
benighted  traveller,  whom  weariness  overwhelms,  or 
sleep  surprises,  who  sinks  by  the  wayside,  or  slumbers 
under  a  tree,  chilled,  benumbed,  and  alone,  while  you, 
whom  God  blesses  with  hearths  and  homes,  and  whom 
He  permits  wives  to  love,  and  to  whom  He  gives  chil 
dren  to  caress,  lie  secure  in  the  circling  arms  of  safety 
and  peace,  —  shall  the  forlorn  outcast  be  compelled  to 
account  for  every  moment  of  time  so  endured,  at  the 
peril  of  being  hanged  for  any  accidental  death  that 
may  occur  within  five  miles  of  him?"  These  sentences 
were  delivered  with  intense  warmth  and  force,  and  were 
greeted  with  sobs  from  the  ladies.  The  words  "  whom 
he  permits  wives  to  love,"  was  a  wailing  cry  of  a  lonely 
heart  coming  out  of  stormy  night. 

"  Here  I  leave  this  case.  I  have  invoked  the  law  for 
this  man's  protection.  I  have  called  time  and  space 
and  the  elements,  and  all  declare  his  innocence,  which 
your  verdict  will  echo  and  record. 

"  Wonder  and  astonishment  has  been  expressed  that 
of  all  men  I  am  here  as  this  man's  advocate.  This 
man  is  my  enem}*,  —  the  son  of  my  oldest  and  bitterest 
enemy,  you  have  been  told.  It  is  because  he  was  my 
enemy  that  I  am  here.  This  message,  holy  as  from 


FRED'S  ARGUMENT.  313 

God,  and  mysterious,  as  if  by  inspiration  came  to  me, 
in  my  far-off —  not  home,  —  I  have  none  :  '  Jake  Green, 
your  old  enerm*,  is  in  jail  for  murder ;  he  is  without 
money,  without  counsel,  without  friends.'  Bless,  a 
thousand  times,  the  angel  who  sent  me  that  message. 
I  hope  yet  to  kneel  and  kiss  the  hand  that  wrote  it. 
It  was  a  summons  from  Heaven,  —  the  call  of  calls. 
He  was  mine  enemy,  of  all  mortals  having  the  strong 
est  claim  upon  me.  And  had  his  father  murdered  mine, 
and  broken  the  heart  of  my  mother,  and  cast  me  to  die 
by  the  wayside,  I  would,  as  I  did,  have  obeyed  it. 
Through  the  rifts  of  eighteen  hundred  years  of  time,  I 
heard  the  voice  of  the  Beautiful  One  —  the  peasant- 
born,  who  walked  the  lovely  valleys  of  far-off  Galilee  — 
commanding  me  to  love  this  mine  enemy.  He  was  an 
hungered,  with  none  to  feed ;  naked,  with  none  to 
clothe ;  sick,  with  none  to  minister ;  in  prison,  and 
none  to  visit  him.  And  I  came  ;  and  I  come  to  you, 
and  lay  him  and  his  case  in  the  sustaining  hands  and 
charities  of  the  law  upon  your  consciences,  1113-  Coun 
trymen,  Gentlemen  of  the  Jury."  And  he  sat  down. 

Not  a  whisper  save  his  voice,  and  the  occasional 
signs  of  applause  mentioned,  had  broken  the  rapt 
silence  for  the  hour  and  a  half  he  was  speaking ;  and 
when  he  ceased  a  low  murmur  arose,  grew  louder  and 
louder,  until  the  aroused  court  and  sheriff  united  to 
quell  and  hush  it,  and  save  the  propriety  of  the  place. 
The  above,  extracted  from  the  columns  of  a  paper  of 
that  da}-,  gives  most  of  the  argument,  with  some  of  the 
language  emploj'ed,  which  is  inserted  at  the  hazard  of 
producing  an  erroneous  impression  as  to  the  speech,  as 
a,  whole.  Fred  was  then  in  the  opening  flush  of  his 


314  THE    PORTRAIT. 

rare  powers  as  a  speaker,  and  just  awakening  to  the 
consciousness  of  strength,  without  knowing  its  extent, 
than  which,  in  this  world,  nothing  is  more  intoxicating. 
He  was  perfect  master  of  himself,  and  spoke  in  a 
presence  and  under  circumstances  calculated  to  call 
out  his  best.  He  arose  with  his  audience  in  his  hand, 
and  carried  it  whither  he  would  ;  with  his  eyes  never 
from  the  jury,  save  when  he  addressed  the  court,  he 
seemed  unconscious  that  another  human  being  was 
present.  No  attempt  has  been  made  to  reproduce  the 
speech.  It  was  a  little  marred  by  strokes  of  sarcasm, 
but  free  from  redundancy',  with  here  and  there  a  touch 
of  nature  which  was  irresistible. 

Fred  closed  at  about  five,  and  the  court  directed  the 
State  to  proceed  with  the  reply.  The  original  pro 
gramme  of  that  side  was,  that  the  prosecuting  attorney 
should  open  the  case  at  the  commencement,  and  that 
Mack  should  open  the  argument,  while  Brown  made 
the  final  reply.  For  some  reason  this  was  abandoned, 
and  the  prosecuting  attorney  undertook  that  rather 
unpromising  labor.  It  was  the  scattered  pattering  of 
rain-drops,  after  the  hurricane  had  swept  the  forest 
and  the  bolts  had  fallen.  As  he  went  forward,  many 
went  out.  He  became  disconcerted,  confused  and  in 
effective.  He  finally  fell  back  upon  his  written  open 
ing,  under  which  he  parti}7  recovered,  but  closed  before 
the  usual  hour  of  adjourning,  amid  a  thinning  out,  rest 
less  and  wear}'  audience. 

The  court  held  an  evening  session,  when  Judge  New 
ton,  in  a  clear,  luminous,  and  decisive  charge,  sub 
stantially  relieved  the  jury  of  the  little  labor  which  the 
defence  had  left  for  them.  They  retired  before  eight, 


FRED'S  ARGUMENT.  315 

and  returned  after  an  absence  of  twenty  minutes  ;  were 
called  and  counted,  and  when  inquired  of  as  to  their 
verdict,  shouted  altogether,  "  Not  Guilty  !  "  A  move 
ment  of  the  vast  audience,  and  then  a  round  of 
applause  with  clapping  and  cheers.  Silence  was  re 
stored,  when  the  court  ordered  the  prisoner  to  be  dis 
charged,  and  adjourned.  While  he  still  sat  a  moment, 
bewildered,  an  aged  woman,  who  had  for  a  day  or  two 
been  observed  about  the  court-house,  and  whom  no- 
bod}r  knew,  pushed  through  the  noisy  ci'owd,  sprang  to 
Jake,  and  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck.  It  was  Aunt 
Sally. 

There  was  a  general  turning  and  movement  towards 
the  trial-table  where  Fred  had  sat,  to  congratulate 
him ;  but  in  some  mysterious  way  he  had  disappeared. 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 

AUNT     SALLY. 

A  LONE,  moneyless,  with  her  bundle,  and  a  little 
./~V.  bent  with  years,  but  plenty  of  warmth  in  a  heart 
early  withered,  but  refreshed,  Aunt  Sail}',  unable  to 
secure  a  passage  down  the  river,  turned  from  the  chilly 
Mississippi  to  face  a  winter  journey  across  Illinois, 
Indiana,  and  nearly  the  whole  of  Ohio,  in  the  sole 
hope  of  again  seeing  Fred,  and  for  the  one  purpose  of 
aiding  him,  so  far  as  she  might,  in  penetrating  the 
mystery  of  his  birth  and  history.  As  stated,  she  was 
absent  from  her  North  Carolina  home  when  the  inci 
dents  of  Fred's  infanc}-  occurred  there,  and  it  was  only 
at  the  death  of  her  brother  that  she  reached  a  clear 
conception  of  the  facts ;  and  then  he  managed  to 
escape  out  of  the  world,  bearing  with  him  the  name  of 
Fred's  father,  the  importance  of  which  the  'shrewd 
Sally  quite  appreciated,  and  which  she  hoped  might  be 
in  the  knowledge  of  Sam  Warden.  She  had  no  very 
definite  idea  of  the  distance  to  be  travelled,  or  of  the 
difficulties,  privations,  and  long-continued,  wearing 
labor  of  the  way.  Fred  was  the  one  warmth,  hope  and 
cheer  of  her  life.  How  large,  and  strong,  and  hand 
some  he  must  be  now  !  She  could  not  think  of  him 
save  as  the  tall,  grave-faced,  beautiful  boy  she  had 
(316) 


AUNT   SALLY.  317 

parted  with  now  so  many  years  ago  ;  and  he  must  be  a 
man.  She  had  once  in  a  long  while  heard  a  word  or 
rumor  of  him,  and  he  must  be  in  Ohio,  somewhere 
about  Mantua.  Then  she  wondered  what  he  would 
say;  wouldn't  he  be  so  glad  to  see  her?  He  would 
never  forget  her.  Perhaps  he  was  married.  What  an 
idea,  —  little  Fred  with  a  wife !  She  did  not  at  all 
wonder  that  he  had  not  come  to  see  her.  Of  course,  he 
would  never  go  near  the  saints  ;  they  might  murder 
him.  So  she  thought,  and  mused,  and  croned  over  and 
over,  in  her  lonety  old  heart,  her  old  woman's  dreams, 
memories  and  visions  of  Fred.  The  roads  were  deep 
and  soft,  and  often  long  stretches  of  desolate,  inter 
minable,  black,  tenacious  mud  stretched  over  the 
dreary,  flat  expanse  of  emptj-  prairie  which  lay  be 
tween  the  remote  farm-houses.  Sometimes  she  went 
astray  ;  some  days  she  made  not  more  than  a  mile  or 
two,  and  some,  she  was  so  weary,  sick  and  sore,  that 
she  could  not  move  at  all ;  and  one  night  she  spent  on 
the  lonel}-,  blank  prairie.  She  was  often  hungry,  many 
times  drenched  with  rains,  —  chilled  and  benumbed. 
All  along,  at  the  farm-houses,  she  was  kindly  received, 
warmed  and  fed,  and  cheered  on  her  way.  Men 
wondered  at  her  courage  and  hardihood  ;  women,  who 
understood  it,  honored  her  devotion,  and  wept  over  her 
sufferings,  and  little  children  gazed  at  the  wrinkled 
face  and  gray  hair,  lit  up  with  the  large  bright  eyes,  as 
something  weird  and  uncanny.  So  across  the  muddy, 
spongy  Illinois,  into  and  across  fair  wooded  Indiana, 
and  over  the  intervening  parts  of  beautiful  and  culti 
vated  Ohio,  the  lonel}'  old  woman  journeyed.  Twice 
she  was  detained  by  illness  for  two  or  three  weeks, 


318  THE    PORTRAIT. 

and  once  by  lameness,  that  threatened  to  prevent  her 
journey.  She  traversed  the  southern  sections  of  the 
States,  and  reached  Cincinnati  before  mid  May.  The 
roads  were  now  good  and  the  weather  fine,  and  hope 
fully  she  set  her  face  to  the  North. 

At  near  nightfall,  on  one  of  the  afternoons  of  an 
early  June  day,  Turner  observed  in  front  of  his  hotel 
an  old  woman,  tall  and  gaunt,  gray  and  grim,  soiled 
and  travel-stained,  supporting  herself  on  a  long  staff, 
•with  thin  and  tattered  garments,  and  an  old,  worn,  quilted 
hood,  from  which  her  long,  gray  elfin  locks  escaped  in 
tangled  rope-like  masses.  She  stood  in  front  of  his 
house,  looking  about  as  if  lost  and  bewildered.  He 
approached,  and  kindly  accosted  her.  She  started  a 
little  at  his  voice,  and  looked  sharply  into  his  kindly 
blue  eyes.  "  Is  this  the  Corners  ?  I  otter  know  ;  but 
it's  a  long  wile  sin'  I  seen  'em." 

"  These  are  the  Corners,"  replied  Lewis. 

"Are  3*6  Lewis  Turner?  I  tho't  I  knowd  ye.  I 
allow  ye've  forgot  me?  "  turning  full  upon  him.  "I'm 
her  as  was  Sally  Green  in  these  parts." 

"  Sally  Green  !  Aunt  Sally  !  I'm  surprised.  Why 
•we  thought  you  must  be  dead.  Your  brother's  dead, 
ain't  he?" 

"  Yes,  and  I've  come  back  all  the  way  ter  find  Fred. 
Ye  knew  Fred  ?  " 

"  I  guess  I  did.  Come  in,  Aunt  Sally,  and  let  me 
care  for  you." 

"  I've  got  no  money  ;  nary  cent." 

"  That  makes  no  difference,"  said  the  kind-hearted 
landlord. 

Washed  cleanly,  and  decently  clothed,  Aunt  Sally 


AUNT    SALLY.  319 

learned  with  astonishment  that  Jake  was  then  on  his 
trial  for  murder,  and  that  Fred  was  defending  him. 

"  Wal !  wal !  wal !  that  beats  all  nater  !  Jake  was 
allus  a  'ard  case.  I'm  not  much  'stonished  at  it ;  but 
Fred  !  An'  Fred's  a  lawyer  !  an'  a  tall,  'ansom  man,  I 
know.  Wal !  wal !  wal !  Poor  Jake  !  he  was  a  purty 
baby  ;  an'  his  mother,  'ad  she  a'  lived  —  "  and  a  flood  of 
old  time  memories  of  the  life  among  the  mountains 
came  over  her  with  a  stir  of  tenderness  for  Jake,  on 
trial  for  his  life,  and  thought  to  be  guilty,  though  the 
Mantua  people  had  a  strong  faith  that  Fred  wouhl 
clear  him.  She  found  that  it  was  thought  strange  that 
he  had  undertaken  the  defence.  She  was  also  told 
that  Sam  Warden  had  just  returned  from  Missouri,  and 
had  been  taken  over  to  Canfield,  and  that  many  in 
quiries  had  been  made  about  her.  Some  parties  from 
Newton  Falls  or  Warren  had  in  some  way  been  inter 
ested  in  making  inquiries  among  some  of  the  Mantua 
people  about  Fred  and  her  brother,  and  about  her,  and 
they  wanted  her.  On  consultation  between  Turner 
and  Uncle  Bill,  it  was  thought  that  Aunt  Sally,  who 
had  at  once  determined  to  go  to  Canfield,  should  be 
sent  over.  Her  fare  was  paid  on  the  stage,  and  she 
was  furnished  with  money  and  a  few  necessaries,  and 
on  the  day  after  her  arrival  she  was  on  her  way  to 
Canfield. 

She  reached  there  the  next  morning,  with  a  letter 
from  Turner  to  the  landlord  of  the  stage-house,  who 
found  her  a  place  with  a  poor  woman,  and  as  soon  as 
she  received  her  breakfast,  she  hurried  off  to  the 
crowded  court-house.  Accustomed  to  crowds  of  men, 
she  pushed  her  way  into  the  court-room,  and  caught  a 


320  THE    PORTRAIT. 

momentary  glimpse  of  Fred,  as  he  arose  to  say  a  word 
to  the  court.  Before  he  sat  down,  he  turned  an  instant 
full}-  towards  her,  and  that  was  Fred  !  How  like  a 
beautiful  angel  he  beamed  upon  her  !  All  the  misery 
of  her  weary  winter  journey  seemed  a  small  price. 
What  a  priceless  boon  to  an  aged  and  solitary  crone  is 
a  young  man  upon  whom  she  can  expend  the  hoarded 
sweets  of  woman's  measureless  love  for  man  —  moth 
erly,  sisterl}-,  womanly — a  great  stream  mingled  of 
all,  and  pure  in  all ! 

At  the  recess  of  the  court  Aunt  Sally  remained  in 
side,  secured  a  more  favorable  position,  and  heard  all 
the  argument.  As  the  case  was  put  together  against 
Jake,  her  attention  was  called  to  him,  worn,  pale, 
sulky  and  cowering.  He  sat,  enduring  as  he  might, 
and  as  she  looked  she  pitied  him  —  solitary,  friend 
less,  and  poor,  with  her  blood  —  a  child  of  her  girlish 
friend.  She  found  that  she  still  had  a  place  in  her 
heart  for  him. 

When  Fred  arose,  she  knew  that  all  that  could  be 
said  would  be  urged,  and  she  somehow  felt  that  Jake 
would  be  saved.  Her  long  sojourn  among  the  Mormon 
leaders  had  familiarized  her  with  the  idea  of  courts  and 
lawyers.  Vaguely  it  came  to  her,  the  relation  of  these 
parties  to  each  other.  This  Fred,  the  cheated  and  out 
raged  child,  standing  here  and  defending  the  son  of 
him  who  had  so  injured  him  for  his  life,  and  that  son 
his  old  malignant  enemy  ! 

As  if,  in  some  dark  wajr,  John  Green  had  foreseen 
the  strait  to  which  his  own  child  would  be  brought,  and 
had  taken  this  infant,  and  by  black  charm  and  spell  lu;d 
bound  him  to  a  strange  way  and  life,  so  that  he  should 


AUNT    SALLY.  321 

finally  serve  Jake  in  his  hour  of  need.  She  felt  that 
the  over-ruling  hand  of  God,  or  some  nearly  equal 
power,  that  usually  had  its  way,  had  shaped  it  all ; 
that  Jake  would  be  saved,  and  the  glory  should  be 
Fred's  ;  and  as  something  of  this,  shadowy  and  elfin- 
like,  passed  darkly  before  her  vision,  Jake  grew  upon 
her  tenderness.  How  proud  she  was  of  Fred  !  What 
a  glory  that  he  should  come  here,  and  push  other  men 
out  of  the  way,  and  command  and  subdue  men  and 
women,  judges  and  lawyers,  rooted  in  no  home,  and 
standing  on  no  hearth  !  As  she  looked  and  listened,  she 
lost  the  meaning  of  his  words  ;  the  sound  of  his  rich 
and  full  voice  became  a  heavenly  melody  to  her,  and 
his  face  and  form  expanded  and  towered  up,  and  were 
transfigured.  Thus  wrapt  and  enchanted,  she  watched 
and  worshipped  till  he  sat  down,  and  the  enchantment 
was  broken.  She  watched  him,  and  placed  herself 
anear  as  he  passed  out ;  but  he  did  not  turn  toward 
her,  nor  did  she  feel  chilled  that  he  did  not.  She  knew 
that  he  would  turn  to  her,  and  perhaps  let  her  kiss  his 
hand,  when  this  was  over,  and  she  was  content.  She 
went  out  and  came  in,  and  was  there  in  her  place  and 
Avaited ;  she  saw  the  light  and  glory  pass  out  from 
Fred's  face,  and  knew  that  he  was  weary  and  worn, 
and  needed  rest  and  comfort.  Then  more  and  more 
Jake  grew  on  her  kindness  ;  and  when  the  final  words 
of  the  jury  were  pronounced,  and  the  whirlwind  of 
applause  swept  through  the  court-room  and  subsided,1 
she  pushed  forward,  but  Fred  had  disappeared.  She 
got  near  Jake,  and  when,  in  the  hush  that  came,  the 
court  announced  his  freedom,  she  called  him  by  name  ; 
21 


322  THE   PORTRAIT. 

he  turned  and  recognized  her,  burst  into  tears,  and 
was  clasped  in  her  arms. 

After  the  disappearance  of  Fred.  Jake  was  the  prin 
cipal  object  of  interest,  and  the  crowd  and  jury  pressed 
about  him  eagerly,  congratulating  him  upon  his  ac 
quittal,  and  becoming  immediately  interested  in  Aunt 
Sally,  whose  sudden  appearance  upon  the  scene  at  this 
final  moment  had  the  charm  of  old  romance  about  it, 
and  invested  her  with  much  importance.  She  was 
at  first  supposed  to  be  his  mother,  but  when  it  became 
known  that  she  was  Aunt  Sally,  who  had  nursed  and 
cared  for  Fred,  the  interest  became  warm  and  general, 
—  for  in  some  way  the  outline  of  Fred's  history  had 
become  as  well  known  in  Canfield  as  in  Mantua.  Jake 
and  his  aunt  were  attended  by  a 'numerous  procession 
to  her  humble  quarters,  after  which  the  people  pro 
ceeded  to  Fred's  hotel,  to  call  him  out  and  cheer  him. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

AFTER. 

WERE  it  not  often  the  cruelest,  it  would  some 
times  be  the  funniest  thing  in  the  world,  could 
we  see  how  blindly,  and  perhaps  blissfully,  men  sport 
with  their  own  fortunes,  or  the  elements  of  their  own 
fate ;  gayly  and  wantonly  toying  with,  picking  up  and 
throwing  down,  running  after  and  casting  away  as 
bubbles  or  trifles  the  factors  of  fates,  the  clews  to  for 
tunes,  the  keys  to  mysteries  dearer  to  them  than  life. 

Here  was  this  youth,  but  a  moment  ago,  holding  in 
his  hand,  refusing  to  open  and  read  it,  strenuously 
struggling  against  its  being  read,  arguing  against  and 
invoking  authority  to  prevent  his  hearing  what  had 
shaped  his  life  and  pointed  its  destiny,  and  which 
would,  at  once  and  forever,  have  dissipated  the  name 
less  shadow  in  which  he  grew  up.  —  have  dissolved  the 
invisible  but  potent  chain  that  had  so  hopelessly  bound 
him.  Yet  with  what  an  air  he  cast  the  oracle  down, 
never  so  glad  as  when  it  went  back  to  silence  and 
darkness,  and  left  him  to  gnaw  at  his  chain  in  the  old 
shadow !  Like  Polyphemus,  strong,  but  blind,  he  re 
pelled  it  all  for  the  sake  of  a  sordid  wretch,  whose 
whole  carcase,  heart  and  soul  thrown  in,  was  not  worth 
the  idlest  wish  his  advocate  had  ever  breathed. 
(323) 


324  THE    PORTRAIT. 

He  had  spoken  in  a  sort  of  mental  exaltation,  such 
as  usually  accompanies  the  successful  exercise  of  the 
best  powers  of  a  fine  speaker  of  fervid  feelings  ;  quick 
ened,  as  we  have  seen,  by  the  inspiring  presence  of 
Belle,  yet  ballasted  with  the  weight  and  gravity  of  the 
occasion  ;  not  strong  and  indignant,  as  when  on  the 
platform,  but  softened,  elevated,  exalted,  with  a  little 
touch  of  pathos  running  through  his  tone,  that  went  at 
once  to  the  fountains  of  feeling  and  sympathy  of  his 
hearers. 

When  he  sat  down,  he  dropped  from  the  upper  atmo 
sphere  again  to  earth,  and  when,  in  the  flattering  ele 
ments  of  threatened  applause,  he  ventured  to  look 
again  to  the  place  filled  by  Belle,  it  was  empty ;  nor 
could  he  catch  a  flutter  of  the  vanishing  drapery.  He 
avoided  the  press  as  much  as  he  could,  and  came  back 
to  the  evening  session  anxious  for  nothing  but  the  ter 
mination  of  the  case,  the  result  of  which  no  longer 
remained  doubtful.  If  it  did  not  run  into  the  night,  he 
had  formed  the  purpose  of  leaving  Canfield  that  evening, 
and  escaping  from  a  presence  that  had  so  haunted  him. 
He  took  occasion,  while  the  jury  were  out,  to  have  a  few 
words  with  Jake,  to  whom  he  also  gave  nearly  all  the 
small  amount  of  money  he  had  ;  and  when  the  verdict 
was  announced,  after  a  word  to  his  associate,  he 
escaped,  during  the  tumult  that  followed,  by  a  near 
side-door,  down  a  private  stairway  and  out  into  the  open 
air,  with  heart  and  brain,  mind  and  soul,  bocby  and 
limbs  crushed  into  a  weary,  broken  mass,  with  the  one 
relief,  —  escape. 

It  was  a  wondrous  young  summer  night,  with  a  full 
moon  struggling  with  low,  running  clouds,  and  a  lively 


AFTER.  325 

air  moving  and  rustling  the  maturing  foliage  of  the 
numerous  trees  in  little  plashy  waves  about  him.  He 
hurried  across  a  corner  of  the  common  to  a  narrow  lane, 
which  led  to  a  beautiful  maple  wood,  whose  green  tops 
had  been  beckoning  to  him  ever  since  his  arrival  in  the 
village.  He  walked  rapidly,  almost  running,  until  he 
passed  the  straggling  houses  and  cottages  of  the  town, 
and  found  himself  on  the  soft  turf  under  the  massive 
old  trees,  whose  darkness  promised  a  wood  of  some 
extent.  The  strain  that  had  been  on  him  was  suddenhy 
removed,  and  the  burden  which  had  weighted  even 
his  sleeping  hours  had  dropped  from  him ;  he  felt 
the  relieving  sense  of  work  done,  a  task  achieved, 
which  is  one  of  the  rewards  of  labor.  But  as  he  fell 
back  from  the  height  of  his  great  struggle  to  his  old 
self,  there  were  no  sweet  associations  of  tenderness  and 
love  to  strew  and  brighten  his  triumph,  or  cheer  and 
solace  his  wean'  spirit,  or  sustain  an  exhausted  phys 
ical  frame.  What  mattered  it,  save  to  the  miserable 
Jake,  of  whom  he  could  think  of  no  commendatory 
word  to  sa}',  even  in  his  defence,  whether  he  had  failed 
or  succeeded?  What  eye  would  grow  bright,  and  what 
voice  grow  soft?  And  Belle  —  the  inscrutable,  nvyste- 
rious  Belle,  who  came  to  inspire  and  help  —  pshaw  !  not 
to  help  him,  —  at  least,  not  for  his  sake,  but  only 
for  the  sake  of  the  cause  it  was  his  fortune  to 
advocate.  But  what  under  heavens  was  there  in  this 
case,  the  fortunes  or  fate  of  this  Jake,  to  interest  her? 
It  must  be  something  connected  with  her  journey 
to  Xauvoo,  —  and  that  journey  might  account  for 
her  absence  from  Martha's  wedding. 

How  cool  and  sweet  the  shadow  of  the  wood  was ; 


326  THE    PORTRAIT. 

how  glad  he  \vas  to  get  away  from  the  crowd,  and  how 
restful  to  throw  himself  upon  the  ground  and  kick  his 
limbs  out!  This  Belle,  —  of  course  she  knew  her 
power  over  him ;  perhaps  it  pleased  her  to  exercise 
it,  and  he  hated  and  despised  himself  as  a  great  feeble 
mooing  calf,  that  he  had  so  abjectly  abased  himself  in 
the  dust  at  her  feet,  and  without  daring  to  raise 
his  eyes  to  hers,  had  only  asked  that  he  need  not  be 
compelled  to  avoid  her,  if  accident  threw  him  into  her 
presence.  And  he  mentally  swore,  out  there  on  the 
ground  under  the  trees,  that  he  never  would  go  into 
her  presence  again ;  and  he  was  glad  that  he  had, 
in  the  coldest  way  in  the  world,  merely  acknowledged 
her  presence  when  he  last  met  her.  lie  remembered 
with  pleasure  that  he  had  only  stared  at  her  once  that 
afternoon.  Lord  !  what  a  look  he  received  from  her ! 
"What  an  incorrigible  fool  he  was  —  an  ass,  a  very  — 
ass ;  and  he  smote  the  ground  with  his  heel  in  self 
scorn.  "  What  ears  I  must  have  "  —  reaching  out  his 
hands  — i%  and  there  are  other  asses  —  hear  them  bray," 
as  a  shout  like  a  cheer,  and  still  another,  reached  him. 
"  Let  them  cheer,  —  the  damned  fools  !  Lord,  how  they 
opened  these  same  mouths  to-day !  "What  a  contempt 
a  man  feels  for  men.  when  he  has  seen  them  bobbing 
and  ducking  about  him.  What  are  they  worth?  and 
to  think  that  this  race  should  think  that  they  were  of 
consequence  enough  to  have  God  come  down  out  of 
heaven  for  them,  —  save  them,  as  it  is  called,  and 
even  He  couldn't  do  it,  so  folks  say.  That  was  too 
much  for  even  omnipotence.''  There  was  a  star,  just 
then,  as  the  leaves  flew  aside.  "  Let  me  raise  one  of 
my  long  ears  and  brush  them  out  of  the  way,  —  make 


AFTER.  327 

them  useful."  Then  he  rose  and  followed  the  path 
deeper  into  the  wood,  trying  now  to  collect  and  crys- 
tallize  his  thoughts,  and  ashamed  of  his  own  weak 
ness.  But  he  had  been  too  profoundly  stirred  to  recover 
himself,  and  finally  the  darkening  sk\-,  and  rain  patter 
ing  on  the  leaves,  admonished  him  to  make  his  waj-  back. 
The  crowd  had  dispersed,  and  most  of  the  houses  were 
darkened  when  he  reached  his  hotel,  which  was  still 
open,  but  quiet,  and  he  went  at  once  to  his  room. 

He  found  it  lighted,  with  Aunt  Warren  in  it,  anx 
iously  waiting  his  return.  She  was  an  elderly  spinster, 
almost  criminally  plain,  whose  unblessed,  lonely  life 
had  been  spent  in  other  peoples'  houses,  and  for  their 
comfort  and  convenience.  Not  without  character  was 
she.  and  full  of  womanly  kindness.  She  was  a  sort  of 
cousin  of  the  landlord,  who  gave  her  a  home,  and 
received  in  return  the  labor,  care  and  fidelity  of  three 
or  four  servants.  She  had  taken  at  once  to  Fred,  and 
had  made  his  comforts  and  wants  her  special  care. 
The  only  fault  she  found  with  him  was  that  he  wanted 
too  little  —  would  not  have  much  done  for  him  —  was 
not  a  man  to  be  pampered  and  petted.  So  towards 
the  close  of  his  nearly  two  weeks'  stay,  they  were  very 
old  and  good  friends.  She  was  immensely  relieved 
when  he  came  in,  but  was  struck  with  his  worn  and 
jaded  air. 

"  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  1  Xobody  knew  what 
had  become  o'  you.  There's  been  everybody  to  inquire 
after  you.  The  whole  crowd  came  and  called  for  you, 
and  wanted  you  should  make  'em  a  speech,  and  they 
give  ye  three  cheers." 

'•  I  heard  the  noise,"  with  the  utmost  indifference ; 


328  THE   PORTRAIT. 

and  seating  himself  by  an  open  window,  he  thrust  his 
feet  and  hands  out  into  the  fulling  rain. 

"Oh,  3'ou  mustn't !  "  exclaimed  the  alarmed  Warren, 
"  you'll  ketch  cold  ; "  and  fussing  about  until  she  got 
him  to  pull  himself  in,  she  closed  the  window. 

"Dp  3*ou  know  whether  Jake  —  Jake  Green  —  has 
been  here  this  evening? " 

"The  man  you  cleared?  Oh,  he  was  here,  and  his 
aunt  with  him." 

"How?  What?"  springing  up  ;  "his  aunt?  Aunt 
Sally?"  with  vivacity. 

"Yes;  that  was  her  name, —  an  old,  gray  woman, 
come  all  the  way  from  Nauvoo." 

"  When  was  she  here?  Where  is  she  now?  Oh,  I 
must  see  her  now,  —  at  once  !  " 

"You  can't  to-night;  she's  gone  into  the  country 
somewhere,  —  she  an'  Jake.  They  came  to  see  3'ou, 
and  she  asked  everything  about  you  ;  said  she  hadn't 
seen  ye  for  mor'n  twelve  3*ear." 

"  It's  strange ! "  said  Fred,  sitting  down  wearilj'. 
"  Did  they  start  back  to  Mantua?  " 

"  No  ;  somebody  took  'em  home  with  'cm.  Jake 
is  a  great  lion.  I  wish  you'd  been  here." 

"I'm  glad  I  wasn't,  —  no,  not  glad,  for  I  missed 
Aunt  Sally.  Old  Aunt  Sally,  then,  is  alive,  and  came 
all  the  way  —  a  thousand  miles  —  to  see  me  !  "  with  a 
softened  voice.  "  She  must  be  quite  old  and  poor. 
Aunt  Warren,  she  is  the  only  thing  on  this  earth  who 
ever  loved  me  that  was  permitted  to  live,  and  it  would 
have  killed  her  if  she  hadn't  been  old  and  tough," 
—  sharpty  and  bitterly. 

"Don't  say  that,  —  don't  say  that,"  —  brightly  and 


AFTER.  329 

gayly.  "  There  is  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most  beau 
tiful  3'oung  ladies  in  the  world,  who  will  give  her  eyes 
for  you  in  a  minute." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Warren"  —  without  the  slightest  light 
ing  up  of  his  face — "it's  pleasant  for  you  to  banter 
me  ;  but  don't  to-night." 

"  You'll  see,  you'll  see  !  an'  so  '11  everybody." 

"  Aunt,  I  shall  go  in  the  morning,  and  I  shall  be 
really  sorry  to  part  with  }*ou.  Have  you  any  friends, 
relatives,  or  home,  except  this  ?  " 

"  No.  I've  alwa}-s  been  nobody.  My  father  an' 
mother  died  before  I  can  remember,  and  I  had  no 
brothers  or  sisters,  uncles  or  aunts.  I  never  had  no 
chance  in  the  world,  and  have  alwa}-s  lived  and  worked 
for  others."  She  said  this  uncomplainingly,  but  a  little 
sadly. 

Fred  felt  a  pang  of  self-reproach  at  his  unmanly 
repining.  He,  a  healthy  young  man,  full  of  strength, 
and,  as  he  now  knew,  of  power,  to  run  off  in  a  fit  of 
spleen  into  the  woods,  and  kick  the  ground  in  angry 
discontent,  and  curse  men  ;  and  because  —  after  all  — 
because  a  woman  scorned  him,  while  here  was  this 
woman  who  had  never  known  heart,  home  or  love,  and 
yet  was  toiling  on  cheerfully. 

"  Aunt  Warren,  I'm  weary  of  boarding  in  a  hotel,  — 
of  having  no  home.  I  will  scrape  together  a  little 
money  and  buy  a  little  cottage,  under  some  trees,  and 
buy  a  cow,  and  you  and  Aunt  Sally  shall  live  with  me. 
She  is  old,  and  shall  milk  the  cow  and  feed  the  pigs, 
and  you  shall  keep  the  house,  and  we'll  have  a  very 
pleasant  time  of  it." 

"  Yes,  we  will.     Oh,  if  you'd  seen  and  hearn  what  I 


THE    PORTRAIT. 

did,  you'd  never  think  of  any  old  aunt  again.  I  wish 
I  knew  what  had  happened,"  —  a  pause  ;  "  you  didn't 
eat  any  supper,  —  let  me  bring  }'ou  something." 

"Not  a  thing." 

"Not  a  glass  of  milk?  " 

"  No,  thank  you." 

"  What  will  j'ou  have  for  breakfast  ?  " 

"Breakfast?     Good  Lord  !     I  sha'n't  want  any." 

"Then  go  to  bed.  Have  sweet,  sweet  dreams,  and 
get  up  and  feel  better.  Good-night." 

The  mind  of  the  young  man  was  health}" ;  only  when  it 
was  stirred  up  as  it  had  recently  been  was  it  that  he  felt 
to  murmur,  and  now  the  thought  of  this  faithful,  patient 
woman  came  in  as  the  needed  agent,  that  precipitated 
the  bitter  and  staining  matter  to  the  bottom.  He  sat 
long  by  the  window  listening  to  the  soothing  plash  of 
the  rain  against  the  building,  and  raised  the  casement 
to  hear  its  patter  and  drip  among  the  leaves  ;  then 
removing  his  clothes,  laid  himself  down  under  its 
drowsy  influence.  Wearied  almost  bej'ond  endurance, 
his  benumbing  memoiy  could  not  retain  the  impres 
sions  of  the  liberated  faculties,  and  oblivion  finally 
came.  The  last  that  he  remembered,  he  was  lying 
under  the  trees  on  the  grass,  partly  asleep,  and  was 
aroused  by  a  slight  sensation  about  one  ear,  and  turn 
ing  his  head,  saw  Belle  sitting  near  him  with  a  clover 
blossom  in  her  hand,  and  blushing  with  arch  innocence. 

He  awoke  in  the  morning  to  find  himself  really 
down  on  the  hard,  bruising  facts  of  life,  with  nothing  to 
buoy  him  up,  or  relieve  the  aches  and  miseries  of  his 
position.  On  trying  to  arise,  he  discovered  that  lie 
was  weak  and  sore.  His  right  arm  was  almost  immov- 


AFTER.  331 

able,  stiffened  by  the  force  and  energy  of  his  gestures 
of  the  da}-  before.  He  had  been  unable  to  eat  his 
usual  food,  and  had  taken  but  little  sustenance,  and  he 
was  languid  and  dizz}-.  He  approached  the  window, 
to  find  the  rain  still  falling,  and  when  he  turned  with 
in,  eveiything  was  dark  and  hopeless.  Like  a  gallant 
bark,  which,  storm-tossed,  had  found  shelter  for  the 
night  in  a  land-locked  bay,  and  whose  mariners  in  the 
morning  found  while  they  slept  the  waters  had  sub 
sided,  and  their  ship  lay  broken  and  bruised  upon  the 
impaling  points  of  rocks.  He  was  obliged  to  exert 
himself,  he  dressed,  and  went  down  to  breakfast. 
The  hotel  was  still  crowded,  and  men  and  ladies  came 
admiringby  about  to  congratulate  him,  and  sj-rnpathize 
with  his  apparent  illness.  He  answered  ga}-!}-  he  knew 
not  what,  and  what  he  said  was  almost  cheered.  lie 
tried  to  eat,  and  could  not.  He  drank  a  glass  of  water, 
and  went  back  to  his  room  to  arrange  for  his  departure. 
He  wanted  to  go  by  private  carriage  to  Warren,  where 
he  would  take  the  stage.  He  made  inquiries  for  Jake 
and  Sally,  and  was  told  that  they  left  the  night  before. 
He  thought  he  would  get  over  to  Mantua,  where  he 
would  find  Aunt  Sally  ;  would  go  over  to  the  Carmans 
and  rest,  and  visit  the  Rapids,  which  somehow7  had 
a  fascinating  interest  for  him. 

It  still  rained,  and  as  he  went  back  to  his  room  he 
remembered  that  he  had  not  more  than  ten  dollars  of 
money,  not  half  enough  to  pay  his  bill,  to  say  nothing 
of  hiring  a  carriage.  Strange  to  sa}*,  he  had  not  }'ct 
learned  the  value  of  money,  and  knew  no  mortal  of 
whom  he  could  borrow  a  dollar.  lie  sat  down  in  a 
listless  way,  staring  out  into  the  still  falling  rain, 


332  THE    PORTRAIT. 

without  the  power  of  being  soothed  by  it,  and  worse 
beaten  than  he  ever  remembered  to  have  been. 

How  long  he  sat  he  did  not  know  or  care ;  it  was  so 
much  of  time  to  be  gotten  over.  He  was  in  a  sort  of 
cold,  aching  stupor.  At  some  time  came  a  little  knock, 
and  the  patter  of  Aunt  Warren's  feet.  She  came 
immediately  up  to  him,  and  handed  him  an  envelope, 
addressed  in  a  lady's  hand,  wholly  unknown  to  him. 
He  took  it  listlessly,  and  looked  at  it  with  the  utmost 
indifference. 

"  Open  it,"  said  Aunt  Warren.  He  did  so,  and  read : 

"  DEAR  FRED, — 

"  Will  you  come  to  me  at  once  ? 

"  BELLE." 

One  moment  of  stupid  surprise,  when  the  light  and 
hope  of  heaven  came  into  his  heart  and  flashed  through 
his  frame  ;  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  turned  to  Aunt 
Warren  with  a  great,  eager  interrogation  in  his  eyes. 

"  There  is  a  gentleman  below  wants  to  see  —  oh, 
I'm  so  glad  !  " 

Half  dazed,  and  as  if  in  a  dream,  Fred  followed 
Aunt  Warren  below,  and  was  met  by  Mr.  Marbury, 
whom  he  remembered  to  have  seen  each  day  about  the 
court-house,  and  seemingly  with  Wansor,  on  the  other 
side  of  the  case.  He  came  forward  with  the  most  cor 
dial  warmth  to  Fred,  and  held  out  both  his  hands. 
"  Let  me  congratulate  .you,  which  I  do  with  1113'  whole 
heart  and  soul.  I  have  a  carriage  here,  and  trust  I 
am  to  carry  you  to  Mr.  Morris's,  where  your  presence 
will  give  the  greatest  pleasure,  and  a  good  deal  more, 
—  I  think  I  ought  to  say  !  " 


AFTER.  333 

"  Mr.  Marbury,  this  unexpected  kindness  takes  me 
by  surprise,  and  I  have  no  pleasure  in  the  world  but  to 
go  with  you." 

"  My  dear  sir,  surprises  rule  these  daj*s,  and  I  trust 
that  none  but  pleasant  ones  await  3*ou." 

Fred  packed  his  valise  —  punched  things  into  it  — 
found  his  bill  paid,  gave  his  last  ten  dollars  to  Aunt 
Warren,  entered  the  carriage,  and  was  driven  rapidly 
towards  Newton  Falls.  The  clouds  had  broken, — 
laughing  fields  of  glorious  sky  appeared  'mid  the 
clearing  heavens,  and  looked  down  with,  "  Dear  Fred, 
will  3*ou  come  to  me?  Belle."  "  Dear  Fred,  will  you 
come  to  me?"  sparkled  in  the  sun;  "will  3-011  come 
to  me?"  glittered  in  the  bright  drops;  "will  you 
come  to  me?"  from  the  birds,  the  grass  and  the  trees, 
from  everything  and  everywhere. 

What  was  it,  —  what  could  it  —  could  it — mean? 
And  for  a  moment  the  impossible  seemed  plausible  and 
probable.  But  his  mind  soon  returned  to  its  healthier 
tone  of  the  real  and  possible.  Marbury  was  at  first 
disposed  to  be  conversational.  lie  soon  found  that  the 
young  man,  however  brilliant  as  an  orator,  and  logical 
and  eloquent  as  an  advocate,  was  neither  a  happy  con 
versationalist,  nor,  although  silent,  a  very  brilliant 
listener,  as  with  a  bright  smile  he  treasured  up  some 
of  his  wildest  answers,  possibly  for  Belle's  delecta 
tion.  It  seemed  to  him  that  whatever  was  his  usual 
frame  of  mind, — that  of  a  sparkling  June  morning, 
ifter  a  rain,  and  the  day  after  the  close  of  an  impor 
tant  trial,  and  while  going  to  meet  his  possible  lady- 
ove,  alone  with  another,  a  middle-aged  man,  he  was 
slightly  preoccupied ;  and  he  found  abundant  employ- 


334  THE    PORTRAIT. 

ment  in  furtive  glances  at  his  companion's  face,  and 
guessing  at  his  probable  thoughts.  But  we'll  leave  the 
speculative  Marbury  the  full  monopoly  of  his  gather 
ings,  and  if  he  should  happen  to  get  off  a  noticeable 
thing,  we  will  give  him  the  benefit  of  our  circulation. 


CHAPTER     X  L  I  X. 

THE   POUTHAIT    AGAIN. 

OVER,  the  Morris  mansion,  somehow,  was  an  air  of 
rather  anxious  expectation.  Belle  arose  quite 
early.  I'm  sorry  to  say,  that  this  had  been  the  pre 
vailing  tone  for  some  time.  Her  face  had  a  sweet  look 
of  exultation.  She  did  not  sit  much,  or  stand  at  ease, 
or  busy  herself  with  any  particular  thing  ;  nor  did  she 
talk,  or  seem  anxious  for  the  society  of  others.  But 
something  like  being  in  readiness  for  some  very  unusual 
and  grave  thing  which  was  approaching  ;  something 
that  had  been  labored  for,  longed  for,  —  that  might 
have  never  happened,  but  which  seemed  certainly  ap 
proaching,  —  the  present  was  already  tremulous  with  its 
vibratory  nearness.  She  was  not  at  all  serene  ;  many 
long  breaths,  not  to  say  sighs,  would  come,  and  would 
not  bring  relief;  and  once  or  twice  she  clasped  her 
hands  as  in  deep  mental  prayer.  It  rained,  and  would 
rain.  She  finally,  very  quietly,  but  decidedly,  ordered 
the  carriage  to  move  oif  for  Canficld,  and  pretty  soon 
wondered  whether  it  had  reached  the  hotel,  and  had 
Fred  received  her  note,  and  how  did  he  look,  and  what 
would  he  say,  —  would  he  come?  "  Dear  Fred,  will}'ou 
come?"  k>  Dear  Fred '"  surely  she  might  say  that  to 


336  THE    PORTRAIT. 

him.  Didn't  he  deserve  that?  She  had  hesitated  over 
it  —  that  "  dear"  —  and  now  she  thought  of  it  without 
a  blush.  Then  she  went  to  her  marvellous  room,  half 
drawing-room,  half  boudoir,  and  several  other  sweet 
places  all  on  the  ground-floor,  in  a  wing,  among  the 
three  rooms  devoted  to  her  use.  There  she  changed 
the  position  of  a  full-length  portrait,  with  reference  to 
the  light,  and  had  a  hurried  conversation  with  Maud  ; 
and  stepped  to  one  of  her  inner  rooms  and  talked  with 
some  one,  a  lady  —  the  voice  indicated  —  there,  and  as 
she  came  out,  the  voice  said,  "  Don't  fear  me,  I  saw  him 
yesterday,  and  neither  fainted  nor  shrieked."  Then 
she  went  out  and  looked  ;  then  the  rain  ceased  and  the 
clouds  parted  and  began  to  clear,  and  she  looked  again. 
It  grew  toward  noon  ;  something  had  happened,  and 
then  over  the  rise  of  ground  came  the  little  fast-step 
ping  "  post-botys,"  their  bay  coats  steaming ;  the  top 
of  the  carriage  was  thrown  back,  and  two  gentlemen 
were  on  the  cushions.  They  turned  in  at  the  gate  and 
swept  around  the  circling  drive  to  the  front  piazza  ;  the 
world  turned  also,  and  more  rapidly,  and  the  next  mo 
ment  the  most  charming,  self-collected,  perfect  woman 
of  society  stood  cool  and  alone,  as  if  to  receive  an  or 
dinary  morning  caller.  She  did  not  mean  to  meet  him 
as  an  ordinary  morning  caller,  by  any  means  ;  and 
when  he  sprang  with  his  wondering  face  from  the  car 
riage  —  which  drove  off —  she  stepped  eagerly  forward 
.and  extended  her  hands  to  him.  He  took  them,  ancl 
could  not  utter  a  word. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you've  come  !  "  in  the  sweetest  of  little 
voices. 

"  Oh,  Belle,  —Mrs.  Williams  !  " 


THE    PORTRAIT    AGAIN.  337 

"  Belle,  —  call  me  Belle  ;  all  who  love  me  call  me 
Belle,"  in  the  same  sweet  voice. 

"•  Love  3-011,  — I  adore  3-011 !     I  —  " 

"  Hush  !  "  in  a  lower  voice.  "  You  have  alreacty  told 
me  that,  and  I  believe  it,"  with  a  wondrous  sweet 
suffusion  on  her  face.  "  Let  us  speak  of  some  other 
things,"  and  she  led  him  forward  along  the  veranda, 
towards  her  domain.  "You  look  thin  and  worn.  I 
hope  you've  not  suffered,  and  you  will  rest  now.  Oh, 
Fred !  do  you  know  we  were  in  raptures  with  you 
yesterday  ?  "  —  what  a  change  in  the  subject !  Her  arm 
was  in  his,  although  she  had  withdrawn  her  hands  after 
the  first  pressure.  "  Dear  Fred  "  was  only  a  dear 
friend,  after  all,  as  he  knew  the  moment  his  thoughts 
came  back  to  him.  "  Let  me  invite  you  to  my  parlor. 
I  left  Maud  there  a  moment  ago,"  and  Maud  left 
it  the  moment  after,  as  she  was  told  to  do.  They 
entered,  and  Belle  motioned  him  to  a  seat  which  hap 
pened  to  command,  in  an  admirable  light,  the  portrait 
she  had  adjusted  just  before. 

As  Fred  paused,  bewildered  with  everything,  and 
especially  bewildered  with  the  supreme  loveliness  of 
Belle,  never  so  ethereally  and  spiritually  beautiful  as 
now,  he  saw  the  portrait.  His  eyes  dilated,  amaze 
ment  came  into  his  face.  He  lifted  his  hands,  recoiled, 
as  if  from  a  blow,  took  a  step  forward,  and  stood 
speechless  ;  for  there,  complete  and  perfect  in  form,  face, 
color,  air,  and  feature,  looking  him  mockingly  in  the 
eve,  was  his  exact  image,  his  counterfeit  very  self,  and 
ho  thought  it  would  speak.  The  color  left  his  face,  a 
tremor  shook  his  frame,  and  clasping  his  hands,  with  a 
22 


338  THE    PORTRAIT. 

low  crashed  out  voice,  "  My  God,  my  God,  who  is  this, 
Belle  ?  "  with  an  imploring  look. 

She  came  to  his  side,  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Dont  you  know?  Does  not  something  tell  }'ou  who 
this  was?" 

"My  father!  My  father!  God  in  heaven!  My 
father !  "  and  clasping  his  hands,  he  dropped  on  his 
knees  before  it,  while  a  great  rush  of  feeling  swept  over 
and  through  him.  "  I  see  here  " —  with  a  voice  grad 
ually  sinking  to  a  whisper  —  "  the  form  and  face  of  my 
father."  Sobs  shook  him  convulsively  ;  and  rising  and 
stepping  nearer,  he  reverently  bent  his  head  and  placed 
his  lips  upon  one  of  the  hands  ;  then  turning  to  the 
sobbing  girl  at  his  side,  "  And  he  is  dead?" 

"  He  died  in  your  infancy." 

A  pause. 

"Belle,  Belle,  I  implore  you,  —  can  you  tell  me  of 
my  mother  ?  can  you  show  me  her  image  ?  " 

"  I  can."  She  pushed  open  a  door,  and  there  walked 
into  the  presence  of  the  more  amazed  Fred  the  beau 
tiful,  but  now  fearfully  agitated  matron  who  had  at 
tended  Belle  in  the  court-room.  Had  a  spirit  risen  at 
the  invocation  of  Belle,  and  assumed  flesh  and  raiment, 
Fred  could  not  have  been  more  amazed.  "Are  —  are 
you  my  mother  ?  " 

"  I  am  your  mother  !  "  with  a  look  and  voice  of  in- 
tensest  love.  She  wavered  as  she  spoke,  and  was 
caught  in  the  blessed  and  blessing  arms  of  her  son.  A 
mother's  form  was  never  sustained  bj~  purer  hands  or 
truer  son.  She  did  not  faint,  or  lose  consciousness. 
She  had  the  day  before  managed  to  see  him  at  his  hotel, 
and  had  found  self-control  afterwards  to  hear  his  speech, 


THE    PORTRAIT    AGAIN.  339 

and  had  been  taken  away  without  being  entirely  over 
come.  Now  with  a  flood  of  tears,  with  which  his  as  freely 
mingled,  she  recovered  herself.  '•  Mother !  mother ! 
my  mother  !  I  have  a  mother,  my  beautiful  mother ! 
and  I'm  a  happy  little  boy,  with  somebody  so  dear  and 
sacred  to  love,  who  will  let  me  love  her.  Oh,  my 
mother  !  and  you  thought  I  was  dead  —  and  this  —  my 
father?" 

'•  Ethfred,"  recovering.  "  I've  heard  what  you've  suf 
fered.  That  was  my  husband,  my  —  " 

"  Don't,  don't,  mother !  you  need  not  say  that  to  me, 
your  son  ;  I  know  —  I  know  —  that  must  have  been  — 
'  Ethfred ' !  That  is  the  name,  and  you  are  the  mother 
of  my  dreams  in  some  far  tropical  land.  How  came 
all  this,  Belle?  Who  made  these  discoveries?  Who 
brought  my  mother  here,  whose  name  I  don't  even 
know?" 

"  She  did  ! "  cried  his  mother  ;  "  this  precious,  prec 
ious  Belle.  No  love  and  devotion  can  reward  her." 

"  You  —  Belle  ?     Is  this  work  yours  ?  " 

"Well,"  said  the  happy  girl,  dropping  her  head,  and 
in  a  low  voice,  "I  had  seen  and  —  and  studied  this 
portrait  a  great  many  times  —  I  was  a  little  taken 
with  it.  Well,  one  day,  over  to  dear  Uncle  Seth 
Carman's,  this  portrait  came  through  the  little  arbor, 
and  walked  around  into  the  house.  Then  I  knew  you 
were  his  sou.  I  had  heard  the  story  of  your  father's 
death,  and  of  your  history,  and  I  knew  that  that  was  a 
mistake ;  so  I  wrote  letters,  and  did  things,"  very 
demurely. 

"  You,  your  very  self,  you,  Belle? "  —  silence. 


34:0  THE    PORTRAIT. 

"  She  herself,  Belle,  employed  detectives,  made  a 
long  winter  journey  to  North  Carolina,  and  another  to 
Nauvoo  ;  she  conducted  it  in  person." 

"  Oh,  Belle !  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  I  can 
oiler  that  you  will  accept,"  —  sadly.  A  pause,  and 
sadder  still,  "  You  could  not  trust  rne  with  my  own 
secret  ? " 

"It  might  not  be  so.  Are  you  unwilling  to  owe  it 
to  me,  Fred  ?  "  reproachfully. 

"Gladly,  — oh,  gladly!" 

"  She  did  not  let  me  know  it  until  after  I  came.  I 
knew  something  was  going  on,  for  she  sent  to  have  me 
come  and  bring  this  precious  portrait.  What  an  exact 
likeness  !  How  handsome  he  is,  isn't  he,  Belle  ? "  No 
answer  to  this. 

Then  came  a  little  knock,  and  Maud  came  in  and 
gave  her  congratulations.  Then  Mr.  Morris,  who 
declared  that  he  had  always  liked  Fred  ;  then  Marbur}', 
and  then  in  one  way  and  another,  by  littles,  from  each 
of  them,  except  from  Belle,  Fred  came  to  know  all 
that  is  known  to  the  reader. 

He  was  ever  returning,  with  the  fondness  of  a  lover, 
to  his  newly-found  mother,  studying  the  form  and 
features  of  his  father,  asking  questions  of  his  mother, 
and  looking  at  the  now  demure  and  shy  Belle  with  a 
wondering  love  ;  and  all  the  time  the  idea  was  repeat 
ing  itself:  "  Dear  Fred  "  is  "  dear  friend,"  —  only  that. 

Curiously  enough,  in  all  the  discussion  among  this 
happy  group,  on  that  long  June  day,  not  a  word  save 
that  of  his  mother  in  any  way  escaped  from  any 
one,  that  this  discovery  and"  restoration  relieved  Fred 
from  the  prejudice  attendant  upon  his  supposed  birth. 


THE   PORTRAIT    AGAIN.  341 

Indeed,  in  that  party  that  matter  never  could  have 
arisen,  even  in  thought,  for  none  of  them  had  ever 
shared  in  it. 

Belle  suddenly  asked  Fred  if  he  "  had  seen  Aunt 
Sall}r  ?  That  was  the  most  of  a  miracle  after  all,  —  her 
coming  in,  as  in  a  stoiy." 

Fred  had  not.  He  understood  that  she  and  Jake 
had  left.  "  I  will  call  her,"  said  Belle,  and  Aunt  Sally 
came,  fairly  beaming  with  joy.  Fred  sprang  to  her, 
and  pressed  her  in  his  arms,  when  she  was  too  happy 
to  speak.  "  And  so,  Aunt  Sally,  yon  came  all  the  way 
from  Illinois  to  tell  me  what  you  knew  of  me,  and  to 
love  me,  you  clear  old  auntie  !  " 

Then,  turning  to  his  mother  :  "  Mother,  she  is  the 
only  woman  who  has  ever  loved  me  all  these  years,  — 
indeed,  the  only  human  being." 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Fred?"  asked  Maud,  with 
a  meaning  glance  at  Belle  ;  "  well,  we  are  all  going  to 
love  3'ou  enough  now,  to  make  that  all  up." 

"  I've  learned  all  your  sad  story  from  Aunt  Sail}-," 
said  his  mother,  scarcely  restraining  her  tears,  "  and  I 
know  what  a  precious  friend  she  has  been  to  you,  and 
to  me  as  well." 

Then  Sam  Warden  and  Jake  came  in.  Jake  tried 
to  thank  Fred,  and  told  him  "  he  allus  thought  suthin' 
was  wrong  about  'im,  but  never  knowed  wat."  Sam 
Warden  came  in  for  his  say,  and  it  was  explained  to 
Fred  how  he  came  to  be  there.  Marbury  spoke  of  the 
way  that  the  Green  confession  was  treated  by  Fred  in 
court,  and  that  they  never  could  get  a  sight  of  it,  in 
the  hands  of  the  prosecuting  attorney,  until  at  the 


342  THE   PORTRAIT. 

close  of  the  third  day  of  the  trial ;  they  had  thought 
that  they  must  rely  on  Sam,  the  portrait,  and  Fred's 
mother,  for  the  last  scene.  Fred  was  asked  if  he  would 
like  to  see  that  document. 

"  Not  just  now ;  when  I  am  more  mj-self.  My 
mother's  story  has  not  been  told  me  yet.  You  all 
know  more  of  me  than  I  do.  I  feel  as  awkward  and 
stupid  as  if  I  was  just  made.  I'll  find  time  for  that 
paper  soon  enough." 

In  answer  to  Marburj',  Fred  afterwards  said  that  the 
document  was  actually  in  the  possession  of  the  deceased 
man,  whose  name  he  presumed  was  White,  and  who 
was  accompanied  by  Olney  to  Kirtland  ;  that  AVhite  was 
supposed  to  be  an  adherent  of  Rigdon's,  who  was  said 
to  have  established  himself  near  Pittsburg,  and  he  may 
have  been  on  his  way  there  from  Kirtland.  This  paper 
was  undoubtedly  in  the  valise,  which  was  said  to  have 
been  carried  by  the  man,  and  probably,  when  the 
horse  ran  back,  as  it  must,  with  the  saddle  partly 
under  him,  the  valise  opened,  and  this  paper  fell  out, 
as  Jake  solemnly  declared  that  in  walking  along  the 
road  his  foot  struck  the  package,  and  knocked  it  out 
of  the  snow ;  that  he  picked  it  up  and  carried  it  on, 
and  never  knew  what  it  was,  fully,  as  he  could  not  read 
much  ;  he  first  examined  it  the  evening  after,  and  the 
wrapper  then  bore  appearances  of  the  water-stains 
made  by  the  damp  snow.  Jake  was  following  as  fast 
as  he  could  a  debtor  of  his  father,  in  the  hope  of  recov 
ering  a  debt ;  but  no  proof  of  this  could  be  made  at 
the  trial,  and  he  thought  that  it  would  be  dangerous 
to  attempt  to  give  to  the  jury  Jake's  version  of  how  he 


THE    PORTRAIT    AGAIN.  343 

came  by  the  papers.  Some  one,  in  passing  along  that 
morning,  had  undoubtedly  picked  up  the  valise,  but 
dared  not  make  it  known,  for  fear  of  being  implicated 
in  a  supposed  murder. 


CHAPTER    L. 

THE    STORY. 

WHAT  strange  sensations,  what  a  new  atmos 
phere  sprang  up  within  and  about  Fred  !  Here 
was  a  mother,  his  mother,  this  noble  and  handsome 
woman,  with  her  hair  silvered,  and  the  lines  of  sufier- 
ing  drawn  on  her  softened  face.  How  lovely  she  was 
to  him,  and  how  natural  and  instinctive  his  love  for 
her !  There  always  was  a  place  for  her  in  his  heart, 
and  she  stepped  at  once  and  full}'  into  it.  "  Mother  — 
my  mother !  "  he  was  saying  to  her  and  to  himself. 
This  father  he  could  see,  —  but  then  he  could  see  him 
self  in  him,  and  was  not  vain,  and  he  wouldn't  let  his 
notions  run  into  foion,  much  less  expression-;  but  he 
found  himself  with  all  the  voices  about  him,  wondering 
what  was  the  feeling  of  a  man  towards  his  father. 
Father  and  mother,  —  but  who  and  what  were  they  ? 
Where  did  they  come  from?  When  and  where  did  they 
meet  ?  How  new  and  strange  it  all  was  !  Then  tuc 
cloud  and  shadow  of  his  life  were  at  once  and  forever 
dispelled.  Now  he  could  love  this  peerless  Belle,  who 
had  done  all  this.  The  benefaction  she  had  conferred 
gave  him  the  right  to  kneel  and  adore  her.  This,  at 
least,  he  could  do,  and  he  looked  very  much  as  if  lie 
would  do  it  literall}'.  Curious  and  expectant  eyes  were 
(344) 


THE    STORY.  345 

on  these  two,  —  Maud's,  in  triumph,  with  a  shade  of 
anxiety  ;  the  mother's,  with  love  and  certainty  ;  Belle's 
father's,  with  gratified  complacenc}' ;  while  Marbury  was 
treasuring  with  suppressed  enjoyment  two  or  three 
things  which  occurred  on  the  homeward  drive  that 
morning.  The  time  for  them  would  come,  and  he 
could  wait ;  as  for  Belle,  she  went  around,  not  yet 
wholly  at  peace,  though  wonderfully  collected  and  com 
posed,  innocently  avoiding  everybody's  eyes,  especially 
those  of  Fred.  Thus  happy,  pleasant  talk  ran  on  until 
somehow  Fred  and  his  mother  found  themselves  with 
Belle,  alone,  in  her  apartment.  Then  Fred's  mother 
told  her  story  to  the  living  son,  whom  she  remembered 
as  lying  amid  the  flowers,  under  the  palms,  surrounded 
with  fragrance  and  the  loveliness  of  that  tropical 
clime,  and  who  now  sprang  to  her  arms  a  grown  man, 
full  of  intellect  and  fervor,  gentle  and  tender  as  when 
she  nursed  him  ;  and  it  was  not  a  dream.  But  all  the 
cruel  past  had  arisen  with  him,  fresh  and  torturing, 
and  she  told  the  story  with  much  agitation  and  many 
tears.  Some  passages  of  it  drove  Fred  almost  mad  ; 
and  once  or  twice  Belle  interposed  to  recall  him  to 
himself. 

This,  in  substance,  was  what  she  told :  Her  name 
was  Mary  Sewall.  Her  father,  in  a  right  line,  descended 
from  the  old  Sewall ;  was  born  and  educated  near 
Boston.  She  had  one  brother  George,  three  or  four 
years  her  senior.  Her  parents  died  early,  after  which 
she  resided  with  an  uncle  and  aunt,  on  her  mother's 
side.  When  George  was  sixteen  or  seventeen,  he 
entered  the  navy  as  a  midshipman,  and  remained  in  the 
service  until  his  death,  which  occurred  while  he  was 


346  THE    PORTRAIT. 

abroad  in  1830.  A  far-off  cousin  on  her  mother's  side, 
with  whom  she  in  a  way  grew  up,  earl}'  became  her 
lover,  and  when  she  was  not  more  than  fifteen,  they 
became  engaged.  He  grew  up  idle  and  dependent 
upon  her  uncle,  and  possibly  the  fact  that  she  inher 
ited  a  fortune  had  much  to  do  with  his  pursuit  of  her. 
It  was  understood  that  the  marriage  should  not  take 
place  until  she  was  eighteen,  the  age  when  she  would, 
by  her  father's  will,  become  mistress  of  a  certain  por 
tion  of  her  property.  She  did  not  know,  at  the  time, 
what  were  her  feelings  toward  her  lover ;  she  only 
knew  that  as  she  grew  older,  the  idea  of  marriage  with 
him  became  unpleasant.  But  as  the  time  was  remote, 
she  did  not  trouble  her  mind  much  with  it.  Her  cousin 
became  very  irregular  in  his  habits,  and  negligent  of 
attentions  to  herself.  She,  to  a  certain  extent,  repelled 
him  ;  without  ever  formally  putting  an  end  to  her  nom 
inal  engagement,  she  had  determined  that  marriage 
should  never  take  place  between  them,  and  treated  him 
with  distance  and  coldness.  lie  was  a  favorite  of  her 
aunt's,  who  did  what  she  could  to  maintain  harmony 
between  them.  Her  brother  was  expected  home  in  the 
autumn,  when  she  would  be  seventeen,  and  she  intended, 
with  his  aid,  to  have  the  affair  with  her  cousin  ended. 
Her  brother  had,  during  the  summer,  written  to  her 
glowingly  of  a  young  South  Carolinian,  who  had  spent 
the  summer,  much  of  it,  on  shipboard,  as  a  guest  of  the 
captain,  while  cruising  in  the  Mediterranean.  His 
name  was  James  D'Arlon,  or  Darlon,  a  descendant  of 
an  old  Huguenot  emigrant,  and  the  last  of  the  line  in 
the  United  States.  They  came  ;  and  —  pointing  to  the 
portrait  —  Mrs.  D'Arlon  said,  "That  was  painted  two 


THE    STORY.  347 

j*ears  later ;  }*et,  save  that  he  was  more  3*outhful,  you 
see  how  he  appeared  to  me."  After  a  pause,  "  We 
became  lovers  at  once,  —  you  know  what  that  means." 
A  pause.  "  My  brother  was  almost  in  ecstacies  over 
this.  We  were  young ;  but  there  seemed  no  good 
reason  for  delay,  and  the  following  spring  we  were 
married"-  — a  pause.  "No  young  girl  loved  more 
fondly  and  devotedly,  and  no  man  was  ever  more 
deserving.  After  marriage  we  went  abroad ;  my 
brother  to  rejoin  his  ship,  and  3*our  father  and  I  to 
travel,  and  visit  the  different  cities  in  Europe,  to  love 
each  other.  Oh,  what  days  those  were  !  On  the  fif 
teenth  of  May,  1819,  at  Florence,  you  were  born." 
Long  sobbings,  and  Fred  knelt  at  her  feet,  and  laid  his 
head  against  her  bosom.  "  Your  father  had  an  English 
friend,  who  had  died  while  they  were  travelling  in  Egypt, 
and  whose  name  was  Ethwold  Alfred  Brainier  ;  it  was 
his  wish  that  you  should  bear  the  names  of  his  dead 
friend  in  full.  I  consented  to  the  two  first ;  you  were 
named  Ethwold  Alfred,  and  in  a  short  time  the  two 
were  contracted  to  Ethfred,  and  finally  to  Fred,  which 
yon  still  bear.  Of  all  bestowed  upon  you  by  your 
father,  this  alone  adhered  to  3*011." 

"  That  is  the  name  —  Ethfred  —  that  I  have  dreamed 
of,  or  remembered,  and  I  must  have  remembered  3'ou. 
And  I  now  remember  that  Belle,  the  first  night  of  our 
meeting,  told  me  of  this  name,  —  Ethfred." 

"And  yon  remembered  it,  and  I  was  certain  that  I 
was  right  about  3*011,"  she  answered. 

Mrs.  D'Arlon  resumed  her  narrative :  —  Her  hus 
band  had  an  uncle  on  his  mother's  side,  a  rich  Cuban 
planter,  who  owned  sugar  and  coffee  estates  on  the 


348  THE    rOUTUAIT. 

island,  and  the  winter  before  Fred  was  a  year  old  they 
spent  with  him,  on  his  estate  on  the  Caneina  River, 
not  far  from  Matanzas.  In  the  spring  the}*  came 
home,  spending  a  few  weeks  among  D'Arlon's  relatives 
at  Charleston  ;  the  summer  and  autumn  the}'  were  in 
Boston,  and  other  places  in  the  north.  Her  husband's 
uncle  dying  suddenly  in  the  autumn  of  that  year, 
D'Arlon  went  at  once  to  Cuba,  followed,  soon  after,  by 
his  wife  and  child. 

As  she  approached  this  point,  she  became  much 
agitated,  and  then  hurried  forward.  She  went  on  to 
say,  "  That  the  nominal  engagement  between  herself 
and  her  former  suitor  was  not  by  express  terms  broken 
off,  —  that  her  brother  did  not  deem  it  necessary,  nor 
did  she  acquaint  her  husband  with  it,  —  that  the  man 
had  rapidly  descended,  until  he  was  almost  disreput 
able  ;  was  a  gambler,  at  times  an  inebriate,  and  familiar 
with  all  the  worst  vices.  He  followed  her  to  Europe, 
was  constantly  thrusting  himself  upon  her,  and  in 
unusual  ways,  and  at  times  and  under  circumstances 
that  occasioned  her  embarrassment,  and  that  might 
attract  the  attention  of  others. 

"  Everywhere  we  went,  sooner  or  later,  he  appeared. 
At  first,  I  did  not  understand  his  object.  He  soon 
demanded  money  of  me,  and  as  an  inducement  threat 
ened  to  make  known  our  former  relations." 

"  Mother,  how  dared  he  so  follow  you?" 

"  Patience  !  such  a  man  dare  do  anything.  I  several 
times  gave  him  considerable  sums,  which  only  gave 
him  a  hold  upon  me.  I  was  young  and  ignorant.  I  was 
free  from  him  in  the  United  States.  On  my  last  visit 
to  Cuba,  I  found  him  on  board  the  ship  which  took  me 


THE    STORY.  349 

out,  and  in  spite  of  his  promise,  he  appeared  at  my 
uncle's  estate.  Your  father  was  never  jealous  —  " 

"  Jealous,  mother?     Good  God  !  " 

"  But  the  dishonorable  course  of  this  wretched  man 
must  in  some  wa}*,  unknown  to  me,  have  excited  his 
suspicions." 

"  His  suspicions,  mother  !     Of  what  ?  " 

"  You  shall  hear.  If  I  had  had  the  courage  to  go 
to  him,  and  tell  him  the  little  that  there  was  to  tell.— 
In  some  way  he  found  out  that  this  man  had  sailed  from 
Boston  in  the  same  ship,  and  I  knew  it  displeased  him 
very  much. 

"  One  day,  late  in  March,  I  had  taken  you  and  Axnir 
nurse  down  an  avenue  of  palms,  and  near  a  grove  of 
the  native  orange-trees,  and  had  laid  yon  down  upon  the 
carpet  of  Bermuda  grass,  where  you  were  rolling  and 
throwing  out  your  limbs,  and  calling  me  pet  names, 
when  this  man  came  down  the  avenue,  much  excited, 
and  said  he  must  see  me  a  moment,  —  that  he  was 
going  out  of  the  island  forever.  He  looked  much  dis 
tressed.  Without  a  moment's  thought,  not  knowing 
what  to  do,  I  accompanied  him  a  few  steps  among  the 
orange-trees,  when,  turning  and  seizing  my  hand,  he 
began  in  a  vehement  manner  to  address  some;  incohe 
rent  words  to  me.  At  that  instant  my  husband  dashed 
upon  him  like  a  tiger,  and  gave  him  a  powerful  thrust, 
which  sent  him  several  yards  from  me  ;  when  lie  recov 
ered  himself,  he  turned  white  with  rage,  and  I  saw  a 
pistol  in  his  hand.  I  heard  two  reports,  and  nothing 
more."  Fred  was  almost  in  a  frenzy.  "  When  I  came 
to  consciousness  I  was  in  my  own  room,  with  none  but 
my  uncle's  servants  about  me,  none  of  whom  spoke 


350  THE   PORTRAIT. 

anything  but  Spanish,  and  I  could  understand  but 
little  of  that.  By  degrees  the  memory  of  the  awful 
occurrences  came  to  my  recollection,  and  I  called  for 
my  husband  and  child.  Nobody  answered  me  save  by 
shakes  of  the  head.  A  physician  from  the  city  had 
been  sent  for,  and  I  had,  it  seems,  been  bled.  In  a 
frenzy  of  fear  I  demanded  to  know  if  my  husband 
was  hurt,  and  to  my  great  relief  I  understood,  by  what 
was  said,  that  he  was  not.  The  administrator  came 
—  an  Englishman  —  and  brought  me  an  envelope, 
addressed  in  my  husband's  hand,  which  I  tore  open. 
In  it  was  a  folded  letter  from  your  father,  and  a  small 
slip,  on  which  was  written,  in  the  hand  of  the  wretch 
who  had  pursued  me,  an  appointment  to  meet  him  in 
the  orange  grove,  and  at  about  the  hour  that  my  hus 
band  found  us.  I  had  not  seen  it  before."  A  pause. 
"Your  father's  letter  —  3-011  may  see  if  you  wish"  — 
her  face  was  pale,  its  muscles  rigid,  and  lips  tightly 
drawn,  while  her  eyes  were  cold  and  stonj-.  "  It  ac 
cused  me  —  of —  of —  oh,  Fred  !  "  — 

"  God  of  heaven,  mother  !  Did  this  man  dare  "  — 
leaping  to  the  portrait  with  a  menace.  Belle  sprang 
before  him.  "  Fred,  he  was  your  father  !  " 

"  It  went  on  to  say  that  this  wretch  had  openly 
boasted  of  this  in  the  city  of  Matanzas." 

"  Mother,  does  that  wretch  still  live?"  hissing  out 
the  words. 

"  lie  died  by  the  hand  of  your  father." 

"  Thank  God  !  "  with  great  fervor  from  Fred. 

"  Fred !  Fred !  for  God's  dear  sake,  spare  him," 
cried  Belle  to  the  mother  ;  "  spare  yourself  these  horri 
ble  details." 


THE    STORY.  351 

The  almost  moveless  lips  continued  :  "It  said  that 
the  amplest  provision  had  been  made  for  me,  but  that 
I  •would  never  see  him  or  our  boy  again."  Each  word 
\vas  pronounced  by  a  distinct  effort,  and  followed  by  a 
pause.  Fred  had  returned,  and  knelt  by  her  side,  with 
his  hands  tenderly  upon  her  waist.  "  And,"  going  on 
in  the  same  wa}*,  "  I  never  saw  him  again  ;  nor  3*011,  till 
yesterday."  These  words  came  in  hard,  diy  gasps,  and 
with  the  last  she  threw  her  arms  upon  the  shoulders 
of  her  son,  and  fell  forward  against  him. 

"Oh,  Fred!"  said  Belle,  going  to  them  and  laying 
her  cheek  among  his  black  curls,  with  a  hand  on  either, 
"  I  would  have  brought  you  joy  and  happiness  and 
hope ;  and  you  have  only  anguish  and  horror  and 
pain." 

"  Bless  you,  Belle  !  "  said  Fred.  "  She  has  had  to 
carry  these  awful  burdens  alone  all  her  life  ;  while  I, 
poor  wretch,  have  been  unhappy  because  I've  had  no 
griefs,  after  all." 

"  I  have  little  more  to  say.  I  fell  into  a  brain  fever, 
and  was  only  returning  back  to  life  amid  the  heat  and 
vapor  of  the  rainy  season.  I  always  wondered  why  I 
did  not  die,  —  I  know  now.  In  October,  I  returned  to 
Charleston,  only  to  learn  that  my  husband  and  child 
were  both  dead.  The  news  again  prostrated  me  ;  and 
it  was  not  till  December  that,  accompanied  b}~  one  of 
your  father's  friends.  I  went  to  the  scene  of'  the  final 
catastrophe.  About  a  month  before  my  arrival  in 
Charleston,  he  had  started  with  a  carriage,  a  servant, 
and  coachman,  and  taking  3*011  and  3-0111-  nurse,  to 
make  a  journe3T  into  Virginia.  What  his  ultimate  pin- 
pose  was  did  not  fulby  appear.  He  had  converted 


352  THE    PORTRAIT. 

nearly  all  of  his  effects  out  of  Cuba  into  money,  which 
he  carried  with  him,  —  over  an  hundred  and  fifty  thou 
sand  dollars.  Your  nurse  was  taken  sick,  and  left  on 
the  road,  and  while  attempting  to  ford  a  swollen  stream, 
in  the  mountains  of  the  Western  part  of  North  Car 
olina,  his  coachman  missed  the  ford,  overturned  the 
carriage,  and  your  father,  with  a  fatal  injiny,  received 
probably  from  one  of  the  horses,  yourself  and  his  ser 
vant  escaped.  The  horses  were  drowned  ;  and  most 
of  his  baggage,  with  the  trunk  that  contained  his 
money  and  papers,  were  swept  awa}*,  as  was  told  me. 
He  died  two  days  after  "  —  with  the  old,  hard  gasp  — 
"  of  his  injuries.  In  his  last  moments,  a  sense  of  his 
fatal  injustice  to  me  seemed  to  have  been  permitted  to 
come  to  him,  and  I  was  told  that  his  last  words  were  a 
message  to  me,  imploring  my  pardon  for  his  rash  mis 
take."  Once  again  her  head  went  down. 

"  Thank  God  for  those  words  !  Oh,  my  poor,  poor 
mother ! " 

'*  A  day  or  two  after,  his  servant,  with  some  effects, 
which  he  is  supposed  to  have  saved,  disappeared,  and 
was  never  heard  of ;  and  you,  my  precious  child,  was 
left  alone.  Bibb  —  Jarvis  Bibb,  who  kept  a  kind  of  a, 
wild  place  near  the  ford,  where  your  father  was  taken. 
and  died  —  placed  3*011  in  the  house  of  a  poor  man  by 
the  name  of  Samuel  Warren,  where,  within  a  few  days. 
3'ou  were  said  to  have  died  also.  You  must  read  this 
awful  Bibb's  confession  for  the  actual  facts.  When  I 
reached  Bibb,  in  December,  all  these  matters  were  told 
to  me  as  T  give  them  to  you.  With  barely  life  and 
strength  to  drag  nryself  to  the  graves  of  my  husband 
and  child,  and  without  question  of  the  truth  of  what 


THE    STORY.  353 

was  told  me,  I  could,  in  my  short-sighted  grief,  only 
kneel  by  them  and  ask  to  die.  As  soon  as  possible  I 
had  their  remains  removed  to  Charleston,  and  interred 
with  his  ancestors  Thus,  Fred,  I  have  hurriedly  given 
you  this  hard  skeleton  of  our  wretched,  wretched  his- 
toiy  ;  some  time  I  will  give  you  many  details  that  I 
feel  myself  incapable  of  now.  Don't,  don't  think  hardl}* 
of  3'our  father.  lie  was  one  of  the  noblest  and  truest- 
hearted  men  who  ever  lived  !  "  And  she  laid  her  head 
upon  his  shoulder. 

"  My  poor,  dear  mother !  How  impossible  to  con 
sole  you  for  these  heart  and  soul  stabs  and  losses  ! 
Only  let  me  love  and  comfort  you,  as  God  will  permit 
me  to  now  ;  He  permitted  it  to  happen." 

"  God  did  finally  send  me,  surcease  of  pain  and  an 
guish,  and  the  hope  of  reunion  in  His  heaven  brought 
endurance  of  life.  Time  benumbs  the  power  to  feel 
sorrow,  and  God  comforts  as  He  will." 

So,  with  many  words  of  mutual  comfort,  and  gentle, 
assuring  caresses,  the  strong,  brave  son  took  up  the 
burden  of  his  mother's  griefs,  and  bore  it  and  her  from 
that  moment  onward.  As  the  story  ended,  Belle  left 
them  to  their  sacred  communings.  Ere  long  they,  too, 
escaped  into  the  glad  sunshine,  and  amid  the  gush  of 
the  outer  life  of  the  young,  warm  summer. 

23 


CHAPTER    LI. 

THE    CONFESSION. 

AS  Fred  wont  out,  he  took  in  his  hand  the  Green 
document,  determined  to  master  all  the  remain 
ing  facts  .of  this  tragic  story,  the  substance  of  which  he 
supposed  he  already  possessed. 

la  a  quiet  nook,  he  opened  the  paper,  and  recog 
nized  the  hand  of  Cowdry.  Although  purporting  to 
give  the  language  of  John  Green,  it  was  rendered  in 
tolerable  English,  and  ran  thus  : 

"  Being  moved  by  the  spirit,  and  admonished  by  the 
most  holy  Prophet  of  Almighty  God,  I,  Jarvis  Bibb, 
called  here  John  Green,  and  once  known  as  William 
Evans,  to  the  end  of  promised  pardon,  and  the  peace 
and  comfort  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  that  passeth  under 
standing,  make  this  my  solemn  confession  : 

"I  was  born  about  ten  miles  west  of  Linville,  Birch 
County,  N.C.  My  father  left  to  my  sister  Sally  and 
myself  a  place  called  Bibb's  Tavern,  sometimes  known 
as  Bibb's  Hole,  and  often  called  Bibb's  Hell.  To  pre 
vent  my  sister  Sally's  marrying,  and  thus  to  secure 
the  whole  of  this  property  to  myself,  I  induced  the 
young  man  to  whom  she  was  engaged  to  believe  that 
she  had  criminal  connections  with  young  Phil  Coney 
and  others,  and  did  induce  her  to  join  in  a  sale  of  the 
(354) 


THE    CONFESSION.  355 

propert}',  and  never  paid  her  for  her  share  until  this 
past  year. 

"  In  the  3'car  1821,  about  the  twentieth  of  September, 
there  had  been  a  freshet,  so  that  Devil's  Creek,  which 
ran  near  my  house,  was  dangerous  to  pass.  Just  at 
night  of  that  da}',  James  D'Arlon,  of  Charleston,  S.  C., 
attempted  to  pass  the  ford,  which  he  missed.  The 
carriage  was  overturned,  the  coachman  and  horses 
drowned,  and  most  of  the  baggage  was  swept  away. 
Mr.  D'Arlon  was  badly  hurt ;  but  owing  partly  to  the 
exertions  of  his  servant  Dick,  and  b}'  my  help,  he  and 
his  little  son,  called  Fred,  were  got  out  and  taken  to 
ray  house,  where,  on  the  next  day,  he  died  of  his  hurts. 
As  God  is  my  judge,  I  never  thought  of  injuring  him. 
He  talked  a  good  deal  of  his  wife,  and  said  he  had  been 
cruel  to  her,  and  left  word  for  her  to  forgive  him.  The 
boy  Dick  said  that  his  master  had  a  large  sum  of  mone}', 
in  gold  and  bank-notes,  in  a  small  iron  trunk,  which 
would,  of  course,  sink.  Just  before  Mr.  D'Arlon  died, 
we  found  this  trunk,  and  got  it  out.  The  trunk  was 
very  heavy,  and  Dick  said  there  was  half  a  million  of 
dollars  in  it.  My  place  is  among  the  mountains,  with 
lew  living  near  it,  and  the  devil  entered  into  my  wicked 
'icai't  to  make  wa}-  with  the  boy  Dick,  and  keep  the 
:noney.  It  was  a  dark,  rainy  night ;  and  having  given 
him  something  in  his  liquor,  when  he  was  stupid  and 
asleep  I  strangled  and  carried  him  down  just  below 
my  house,  and  pitched  him  into  the  'Devil's  Hole,'  in 
1he  creek,  and  told  that  he  had  robbed  his  master,  and 
ran  away.  I  got  the  key,  and,  on  opening  the  trunk,  I 
found  there  the  bank-notes,  mostly  on  New  York  and 
Boston  banks,  as  I  learned  afterwards,  had  been  rolled 


356  THE    PORTRAIT. 

in  oil-skin,  and  were  not  wet.  I  don't  know  bow  much 
there  was  —  I  never  could  count  it  rightly  —  more  than 
I  ever  saw  before  or  since.  When  Mr.  D'Arlon  died,  I 
sent  down  to  Linville,  about  fifteen  miles,  and  got  a 
coffin  and  a  notaiy  and  a  preacher,  and  Mr.  D'Arlon 
was  buried.  The  notary  took  an  inventory  of  what  he 
had  —  his  watch  and  chain,  and  what  money  was  in 
his  purse,  and  some  papers  —  paid  nvy  bills,  and  took 
them  with  him  to  Linville.  He  also  wrote  to  a  man  in 
Charleston  to  hunt  up  and  tell  Mr.  D'Arlon's  friends. 
I  never  touched  a  thing  but  what  was  in  the  trunk, 
which  I  hid. 

kt  What  to  do  with  the  boy,  about  two  or  three  j'ears 
old,  I  did  not  know.  Sally  was  away  all  this  time, 
and  I  got  Samuel  Warren,  a  sort  of  a  relative  who  was 
at  my  place,  to  take  him  till  his  friends  should  come 
for  him.  About  ten  days  after  that,  Sam's  child  died, 
and  I  then  thought  that  this  boy  might  pass  as  his,  as 
there  was  nobody  that  knew  which  child  died  ;  accord 
ingly  it  was  given  out  that  the  boy  had  died  also,  as 
was  reasonable.  I  was  afraid  that  if  the  boy  grew  up 
among  his  father's  friends,  or  with  his  mother,  when  he 
was  old  enough  something  would  happen,  and  he  would 
find  everthiug  out.  So  I  paid  Sam  fifty  dollars  and 
the  run  of  drink,  to  take  the  boy  as  his  own.  When 
the  boy's  mother  came,  Sam's  wife  went  up  into  the 
mountains  to  a  place  I  knew,  and  took  this  boy  with 
her.  I  told  them  all  about  it,  and  finally  the}'  had  the 
bodies  removed. 

"  After  this  I  did  not  feel  safe  ;  I  could  not  use  1  he 
money,  and  in  the  spring  I  sold  the  place,  and  Sally 
signed  the  deed.  I  took  Sam  and  his  wife,  and  the 


THE    CONFESSION.  357 

boy,  and  Sally,  and  went  across  the  mountains,  into 
Tennessee,  where  I  was  known  as  William  Evans. 
Sally  was  my  widowed  sister,  and  kept  her  name.  We 
staj-ed  there  and  cropped  one  season,  and  then  moved 
to  Western  Virginia,  where  I  met  a  man  from  the  West 
ern  Reserve,  who  owned  land  in  the  town  of  Mantua. 
I  found  there  was  no  communication  between  that  re 
gion  and  the  South,  and  that  no  man  from  the  South 
ever  moved  on  to  the  Reserve  ;  so  I  bought  his  land,  and 
took  the  deed  in  the  name  of  John  Green,  my  wife's 
brother  ;  buying  up  a  good  many  cattle  and  horses  and 
things,  I  moved  here,  and  came  in  the  spring  of  1824. 
Here  I  took  the  name  of  John  Green,  and  Sally,  my 
sister,  though  called  a  widow,  came  to  be  known  as 
Sally  Green.  We  brought  the  boy  Fred,  and  I  bought  a 
piece  of  land  on  the  river  in  the  woods,  so  that  nobody 
might  ever  see  the  boy,  for  he  was  not  like  common 
boys ;  and  Sam,  whose  name  here  was  Warden,  built  a 
tog  house  and  lived  there.  When  his  wife  died,  I  had 
him  bind  the  boy  to  me,  and  when  the  fight  came  off, 
and  Jake  killed  his  dog,  I  told  the  selectmen  that,  after 
ill,  he  was  Sally's  boy.  She  had  suspected  some- 
ihing  all  the  time,  and  always  declared  that  this  was 
not  Betsej-'s,  —  Sam's  wife's  child.  We  had  an  awful 
quarrel,  and  to  quiet  her,  I  gave  her  a  deed  of  the  Jim 
Frost  farm,  and  five  hundred  dollars  in  gold. 

"  The  older  this  boy  grew,  the  more  anxious  I  was  to 
'iceep  him.  Something  has  told  me,  that  if  he  goes 
.iway,  he  will  hunt  up  harm  to  me. 

"  Sally  don't  know  how  it  got  out  that  the  boy  is  hers, 
.ind  as  she  has  taken  such  a  liking  to  him,  she  seems 
not  to  care  about  it.  I  never  really  thought  of  putting 


358  THE    PORTRAIT. 

this  boy  on!  of  the  way,  though  I  did  not  know  what 
to  do  with  him.  I  never  murdered  any  man  ;  I  only 
killed  the  nigger  boy  Dick. 

"•In  the  name  of  God,  Amen. 

"  JOHN  GREEN,  his  X  mark. 

"  In  presence  of  II.  D.  LADD. 
"  MANTUA,  January,  1831 .  Acknowledged,  etc" 

Fred  had  read  in  the  law-books  the  digest  of  sin 
gular  and  vulgar  crimes,  and  the  uninstructcd  rude 
and  simple  details  of  them,  in  the  naive  confessions  of 
low-bred  villains ;  but  for  straightforward,  hard,  dry, 
unrelieved,  undressed  narration  of  murder  and  robbery, 
nothing  that  he  had  ever  met  in  downright  honesty  of 
statement  equalled  this.  The  grim  naivete  of  the  dec 
laration,  that  he  had  never  murdered  a  man,  had  only 
killed  a  nigger,  and  chucked  him  into  the  "  Devil's 
Hole  "  of  a  dark  night,  was  not  wholly  lost  on  Fred, 
even  now.  And  this  was  John  Green's  secret,  and  it 
was  by  means  of  reaching  his  superstitious  fears  that, 
this  paper  was  extorted ;  this  placed  him  with  his 
uncounted  plunder  in  the  hands  of  the  Prophet ;  made 
him  and  his,  the  bound  thrall  of  Jo  Smith ;  compelled 
him  to  submit  to  an  instantaneous  sequestration  of  every 
thing  he  claimed,  and  closed  his  mouth  against  outcry 
or  complaint.  In  the  dark  and  mysterious  courses  of 
permitted  and  punished  crime,  what  surpassed  this? 

This  was  his  story.  The  child  of  these  beautiful, 
loving,  and  unfortunate  parents,  born  in  Florence, 
snatched  by  his  father  from  his  mother,  and  hur 
ried  off  on  a  mysterous  journe}-,  and  substituted  for 
another,  and  hid  from  his  mother  in  the  mountains  ;  his 


THE    CONFESSION.  359 

pilgrimage  through  Tennessee  and  Virginia,  and  strange 
wild  life  in  the  Ohio  woods  ;  twice  bound,  and  always 
kept  under  the  eye  and  shadow  of  this  murderer  ;  his 
life  warped  and  darkened  1)3*  him  in  his  unsleeping 
fear;  led  by  Green  on  a  circuitous,  obscure  road, 
running  through  all  the  slow-moving  years  of  infancy, 
boyhood,  and  early  youth,  until,  when  he  had  matured 
into  the  image  of  his  father,  he  was  thus  brought 
under  eyes  that  recognized  him  at  a  glance,  and  that 
penetrated  the  hidings  and  frauds  of  these  fears  and  arti 
fices,  in  a  moment.  How  shallow  and  futile  the  strat 
agems  of  the  most  cunning  criminal  always  are,  always 
leaving  a  clew  dangling  in  the  eyes  and  within  the 
reach  of  the  hands  of  men,  could  they  only  sec  it.  How 
strange  and  mysterious  the  way  in  which  this  document 
came  to  his  hand,  to  finally  tell  the  story,  thrust  upon 
him,  while  he  was  defending  the  son  of  this  man ! 
Nay,  that  son  was  the  messenger  who  bore  it  to  him  ! 
His  mind,  trained  to  acutencss,  could  rapidly  run  over 
and  through  the  links  ;  yet  the  why  and  wherefore  was 
as  inscrutable  to  him  as  to  the  thrush  that  piped  the  day 
through  from  the  forest  thicket,  not  remote.  And  how 
darkly  he  had  been  closed  in  and  circled  about  by  the 
lines  of  all  these  tragic  years  !  Suffering,  and  helping 
to  pay  the  penalty  of  his  innocent  mother's  ignorance, 
and  of  his  maddened  father's  rashness.  He  was  at  the 
end  of  it  now,  and  how  diminutive  seemed  Jake,  and 
his  petty  trial  and  final  acquittal.  He,  too,  was  caught 
and  nearly  crushed  in  the  recoil  of  the  acts  of  his  father, 
committed  in  his  infancy.  And  on  his  trial  the  bare 
possession  of  this  writing  might  have  been  fatal  to  him, 


360  THE    PORTRAIT. 

could  the  fact  have  been  established,  that  it  was  in  tho 
possession  of  the  dead  man.  But  how  far  off  now  in 
remote  perspective  lay  the  trial  which  had  but  just 
closed,  clear  away  at  the  other  end  of  the  dark  histoiy, 
so  suddenly  unrolled  between  it  and  the  triumphant 
advocate. 

In  the  midst  and  through  the  mist  of  it  all,  and  up 
over  it  all,  floated  the  form  of  Belle.  Her  eye  had 
detected  the  likeness  ;  her  hand  had  clutched  the,  to 
others,  unseen  clew,  which,  with  her  undreamed  of 
energies,  she  followed  up.  True,  the  slow-growing 
fruits  were  ripening  in  their  bitterness,  and  a  catas 
trophe  of  some  kind  would  have  precipitated  itself. 
Green's  confession  was  on  its  mysterious  way  East ; 
its  messenger  was  to  be  slain  ;  the  paper  was  to  fall  into 
Jake's  hands  ;  — had  it  fallen  into  any  others,  or  lain  on 
the  ground,  no  trial  for  murder  would  ever  been  had. 
But  it  was  Belle,  as  he  had  learned,  who  had  dictated 
to  him  the  message  that  put  him  in  connection  with 
the  case.  To  him,  how  wonderful  it  all  seemed.  And 
it  was  wonderful. 

And  did  none  or  all  of  these  things  presage  that  tho 
history  of  Belle  and  his  own  were  finally  to  unite  in 
one  sweet  story  of  old  time  romance?  Thus  he  mused 
and  wandered  in  the  shrubbery,  midst  opening  roses  in 
the  declining  afternoon.  Others  were  coming  and 
going  in  the  walks,  and  the  eyes  of  two  were  specially 
on  him  —  his  proud  and  almost  happy  mother — who 
was  not  remote,  and  shy  and  innocent  Belle,  who 
was  remote,  and  who  yet,  curiously  enough,  did  not 
long  have  him  out  of  the  range  of  her  downcast  eyes. 


THE   CONFESSION.  361 

Soon  came  the  call  for  dinner,  when  Fred  and  his 
mother  met,  and  he  took  her  arm,  and  as  they  walked 
toward  the  house,  somehow  Belle  was  standing  in 
their  course,  and  took  her  other  arm,  and  the  three 
found  Maud  and  her  father  and  husband  awaiting 
them. 


CHAPTER    LI  I. 

TUB    LOVERS. 

IT  would  have  been  curious  to  an  observer  —  the 
tacit  concert  of  those  who  gathered  around  the 
dinner-table  —  by  which  no  reference  was  made  to  any 
of  the  late  exciting  events,  or  the  incidents  of  the 
tragic  histoiy,  which  all  knew  was  now  common  prop 
erty.  Maud,  in  her  graceful  and  ripened  beauty,  pre 
sided  at  the  head,  while  the  manly  face  of  her  husband, 
rich  with  the  play  of  genial  humor,  looked  back  to  her 
from  the  other  end  of  the  table.  Fred,  with  his  mother 
on  one  side,  and  Belle  and  her  father  on  the  other, 
with  the  beautiful  children,  one  \>y  the  mother  and  the 
other  by  the  father,  made  up  the  part}*.  Mr.  Morris, 
in  his  soft,  low  voice,  said  a  short  grace.  No  one 
was  much  inclined  to  conversation.  Mrs.  D'Arlon  had 
recovered  her  wonted  serenity,  and  peace  was  in  her 
eyes.  Fred's  face  was  grave  and  thoughtful,  with  an 
occasional  lifting  of  his  e}"es  to  the  demure  face  of 
Belle,  opposite  him,  who  did  not  meet  them  at  all,  as 
the  observant  Maud  noticed,  from  which  she  augured 
favorably.  She  thought  that  this  matter  would  be  left  to 
the  silent  workings  of  Belle's  own  heart  and  soul,  with 
Fred  standing  b}-  in  reverent  silence.  That  was,  of 
course,  all  very  high,  and  sacred,  and  sublimated. 
(3G2) 


THE    LOVERS.  3G3 

She  doubted  if  she  could  quite  appreciate  it ;  and  as 
she  met  the  frank,  loving  glance  of  her  husband,  with 
their  beautiful  children  in  her  eves,  she  realized  that 
husband  and  children  were  preferable  to  mere  soul- 
love  above  the  clouds.  As  she  looked  at  the  kindling 
face  of  Fred,  she  doubted  whether  ambrosia  and  nectar 
would  always  sustain  him,  and  whether  he  would  not 
at  some  time  dash  his  arms  impetuously  about  Belle's 
waist,  and  assert  the  rights  of  his  man's  love.  She  was 
much  inclined  to  rely  on  these  reserved  forces  if  need 
be.  Yet  on  the  whole  she  doubted  whether  they  would 
ever  be  called  into  action.  Her  sister  had  so  suddenly 
developed  the  strong  and  deep  qualities  of  her  real 
nature,  that  she"  had  become  inscrutable  to  Maud  ;  yd 
she  fancied  that,  like  many  a  maiden  wondering  over 
the  opening  secrets  of  her  own  heart  and  its  needs,  she 
was  even  now  trembling  with  running  over  its  hoarded 
sweets  and  wealths,  and  that  it  would  ere  long  make  its 
voice  heard  on  Belle's  mooted  question.  Much  as  a 
fond  mother  who  is  intensely  interested  in  the  varying 
phenomena  of  a  daughter  the  worshipped  of  a  true  and 
noble  man,  toward  whom  every  clement  of  her  nature 
was  drawn,  watches  her  every  movement  in  a  charmed 
atmosphere,  colored  with  his  presence,  she  closely  ob 
served  her  sister.  As  the  afternoon  lapsed  into  twi 
light,  and  the  softened  breeze  in  dying  whispers  was 
taking  tender  leave  of  the  closing  flowers,  and  the  full 
moon  wras  shooting  its  silvery  darts  aslant  under  the 
trees,  she  missed  the  forms  of  both.  They  were  not  on 
an}'  of  the  verandahs,  nor  in  the  parlors,  or  library  — 
not  in  Belle's  boudoir  —  and  she  thought  that  she  had 
once  caught  the  gleam  of  a  white  dress  in  the  famous 


3G4  TITE    PORTRAIT. 

grape  arbor,  a  little  remote,  and  which  terminated  one 
of  the  walks.  As  the  twilight  deepened,  and  the  night 
air  grew  damp  and  chill,  she  remembered  Belle's  light- 
robed  shoulders,  and  knew  she  would  not  come  in  — 
that  girls  were  never  known  to  —  and  taking  a  light, 
warm  wrap,  she  went  toward  the  arbor,  along  the 
gravelled  walk.  Like  the  considerate  Mrs.  Nickleb}', 
she  signalled  her  approach,  and  looked  away  from  the 
arbor.  As  she  stood  in  the  leaf-surrounded  entrance 
with  the  proffered  wrap,  Fred  arose  from  a  low  seat  at 
Belle's  feet,  came  forward,  and  took  the  shawl  with  a 
low  "  thanks,"  and  she  turned  awa}'. 

Not  all  the  possible  nameless  details  that  ma}'  have 
hovered  in  the  atmosphere  of  Maud's  fancy  —  perhaps 
none  of  them  —  had  marked  the  interview.  Fred  had 
fallen  on  his  knees  on  the  low  seat  at  Belle's  feet  as 
she  sat  down,  and  in  a  very  compelling  \vay  she  bade 
him  assume  a  more  ordinary,  if,  under  the  circum 
stances,  a  less  lover-like  attitude.  But  his  impetuous, 
heartful  and  soulful  voice  would  not  at  first  be  quenched. 
"  Oh,  Belle  !  my  heart  and  soul  will  speak  ;  will  be 
heard  —  not  in  little  paper  parcels  —  but  at  your  feet  I 
will  say,  that  with  every  power  of  heart,  soul,  and 
brain,  with  every  emotion  and  fibre  of  my  being,  I 
love  you ;  not  with  a  love  that  would  command  or 
compel ;  not  a  love  that  will  implore  or  supplicate, 
but  a  man's  love,  to  reverence  and  worship  ;  a  love 
that  you  may  smite  and  reject,  if  you  will,  and  it  will 
not  murmur."  Once,  as  he  spoke,  she  extended  her 
hand,  and  then  snatched  it  from  him.  In  the  alread}' 
twilight  arbor,  he  could  not  see  her  .face,  but  her  form 
shook  as  if  with  a  suppressed  emotion.  She  removed 


THE    LOVERS.  365 

her  hand  from  her  face,  —  "  Fred,  Fred  !  "  in  a  deep, 
earnest  voice,  "  I  am  a  woman ;  I  cannot  bear  to 
have  you  think  that  I  am  less  than  a  woman  ;  a  woman 
to  be  loved  ;  a  woman  to  be  glorified  and  crowned  with 
with  such  love  as  yours  ;  one  who  would  above  e'arth 
gladl}'  give  back  all  she  is  and  has  !  "  —  a  pause,  and 
lower  and  deeper.  —  "  Listen  !  I  am  a  wife  now." 

"  A  wife  !  You  a  wife  !  "  starting  up  in  amazement, 
almost  in  horror.  "How?  I  don't  understand.  I 
thought  j-our  boy-husband  died  years  ago.  Is  there  ? 
can  there —  ?" 

"•  There  cannot  be  ;  there  is  no  other.  Oh,  no  other, 
Fred  ! " 

"Did  not  his  death  dissolve  this  marriage?  Are 
you  still  bound  to  a  phantom  —  a  shade  —  a  memory  ?  " 
with  astonishment  in  his  voice. 

"  Were  I  free  as  }'ou  are  free,  to  give  you  myself,  as 
I  would  give  ;  and  should  it  please  God  to  separate  us 
for  a  little,  would  you,  in  my  absence,  woo,  love,  win, 
and  wed  another  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Belle  !  how  you  torture  me.  In  m}*  heart  and 
soul  I  reverence  a  true  marriage  as  eternal." 

"Would  3'ou  take  another's  wife  in  adultery?" 

He  dropped  his  face  and  groaned.  "  It  was  not  so 
much  to  hear  you,  or  to  argue  this  matter  with  }"ou, 
that  I  came  with  3*011  here,  as  to  tell  you  my  own  little 
story."  Then  without  hesitation,  in  her  unconscious 
innocence,  she  told  him  the  story  of  her  married  life. 
And  if  there  was  ever  lover  worth}*  of  such  a  confidence, 
it  was  he  who  reverently  listened  to  her  on  that  June 
night.  When  she  finished,  a  silence  ensued,  and  it 
was  during  this  silence  that  the  thoughtful  Maud 


3G6  THE   PORTRAIT. 

brought  the  needed  wrap.  As  Fred  received,  he  laid 
it  with  a  tender  reverence  about  her  shoulders,  and 
still  remained  standing,  as  if  she  would  terminate  the 
interview  then.  She  evinced  no  such  purpose,  and 
Fred  resumed  his  seat. 

"  Fred,"  speaking  again,  "  this  has  been  the  subject 
of  thought  and  praj-er  and  of  some  conversation  with 
Maud ;  and  I  sa}r  frankly,  that  lately,  when  I've  tried 
in  my  own  soul  to  meet  it,  I  am  in  doubt.  I  think  I 
can  see  where  my  duty  lies,  but  I  don't  feel  it  so 
strongly — "with  a  sweet  sincerity  —  "and,  Fred, 
knowing  this  —  " 

"  Belle,  Belle,  don't  let  me  be  tempted  to  assail,  to 
throw  my  arms  of  passion  about  the  soul's  wings, 
when  it  would  arise  white  and  spotless  to  God's  throne 
for  light.  God,  with  your  soul,  must  decide  this  !"  with 
a  sad  earnestness. 

"With  a  wonderful  sweetness  and  trust,  she  now  placed 
her  hand  in  his.  "  Oh,  my  soul's  lover  and  brother,  — 
now  indeed  can  I  trust  }*ou  !  Do  you  not  feel  it  possi 
ble,  that  out  of  the  atmosphere  of  earth  and  above  its 
clouds  and  gross  perfumes,  souls  may  meet  and  com 
mune  ?  " 

"  Belle,  I  distrust  this.  The  most  elevated  and 
exalted  soul  is  only  strong  as  its  temple  is  pure  and 
sacred.  For  one,  I  dare  not  hope  that  such  a  union 
can  ever  become  purified  and  sublimated,  and  beside, 
is  not  your  marriage  one  of  soul  and  spirit,  purely  ! 
and  will  your  wedded  spirit  admit  another  to  commun 
ion  with  it  ?  "  Was  there  a  little  of  sarcasm  in  this  ?  or 
was  it  the  recoil  —  the  revolt  of  the  instinctive  man 
from  the  only  hope  she  proffered  ? 


THE    LOVERS.  367 

"  Fred,"  a  little  coldly,  "  there  can  be  but  one  mar 
riage  of  soul  as  of  body.  The  chaste  and  pure  may 
have  friendships,  may  they  not  ?  " 

"  Friendships  !  friendships  !  and  friendships  of  the 
soul !  What  empty,  meaningless  words  !  I  am  but  a 
man,  and  never  less  a  man  than  now ; "  with  a  sad 
bitterness. 

"  Fred,"  solemnby,  "  would  3-011  wed  with  me,  take 
me  as  your  wife,  if  I,  consenting,  should  still  see  this 
other  tie  lying  between  us  ?  " 

"Belle,  though  I  would  compass  earth  and  compel 
all  its  impossibilities  to  reach  you,  yet  you  must  come 
to  me  without  the  shadow  of  doubt  or  distrust,  —  with 
your  whole  self." 

She  extended  to  him  her  other  hand,  and  the}r  arose, 
passed  out  under  the  moon,  and  without  another  word 
returned  to  the  house,  and,  at  the  door  of  Belle's  apart 
ments,  they  silently  took  leave  of  each  other  for  the 
night. 


CHAPTER    LIII. 

BELLE    SENDS    ANOTHER    MESSAGE. 

T  ATER,  Belle  emerged  from  the  charmed  mys- 
-"— ^  teries  of  her  sleeping-room,  with  hair  looped  up 
in  beautiful  hanging  festoons,  with  light  rippling 
through  its  wavelets,  in  a  simple  robe  of  white,  that  just 
gave  freedom  and  air  to  the  shoulders,  and  fastened  iu 
front,  so  as  to  permit  a  little  auroral  white  to  radiate 
up  through  its  openings.  Lightl}-  her  graceful  folding 
robe  of  white  silent  stuff,  gathered  about  her  waist, 
uudcr  the  easy  restraint  of  woven  silk  cords  tied  at  the 
left  side ;  and  as  she  came  forward  and  reclined  upon 
a  spacious  sofa-like  lounge,  with  rich  silken  cushions, 
the  snowy  slipper  which  stole  so  innocentl}7  and  uncon- 
ciously  into  the  light,  betrayed  that  it  alone  covered, 
without  hiding,  a  foot  that  had  but  one  peer  in  the 
world.  Her  face  was  never  so  serenely  lovely  as  now  ; 
not  the  warm  sensuous  loveliness  of  a  promised  bride, 
half  conscious  that  sense  united  to  form  its  glow  ;  but 
the  celestial  and  serene  loveliness  of  the  affianced  of 
Heaven,  in  which  the  vague  and  far-off  emotion  of 
earth  was  still  present,  but  purified  until  it  took  the 
color  and  hue  of  heaven. 

The  face  was  grave,  too,  almost  to  solemnity,  for  she 
felt  that  the  hour  of  final  ordeal  had  come.     She  had 
(368) 


BELLE    SENDS    ANOTHER   MESSAGE.  369 

shrunk  from  this  love  that  had  so  enfolded  her,  and 
•would  not  let  her  escape,  and  in  which  she  could  hardly 
have  breathed  had  she  not  compelled  it  to  color  and  shape 
itself  in  the  grasp  of  her  high  ideal.  She  had  shrunk 
from  herself,  would  not  be  with  herself,  would  not  know 
herself,  and  as  constantly  rushed  out  of  and  away  from 
herself;  now  for  this  day  she  had  been  compelled  to 
reoccupy  her  inner  self.  And  Fred,  —  she  was  not  now 
compelled  to  avoid  him.  lie  had  been  the  one  subject 
of  thought,  action  and  being ;  but  it  was  in  the  decep 
tive  character  of  an  object  to  help,  toil,  scheme,  and 
plan  for,  not  in  the  guise  of  a  lover,  who  was  some 
time  to  know  and  reward  with  a  life  of  devotion.  Now 
this  delusion  had  vanished,  and  he  was  before  her  with 
his  great  unselfish  love,  tested  by  her  two  or  three 
questions,  and  she  knew  that  it  could  be  trusted.  All 
the  time,  the  two  or  three  cries  of  anguish  which  had 
escaped  him  in  his  moments  of  heat  in  his  speech  for 
Jake,  were  haunting  her  memoiy.  Now  she  must  an 
swer  to  herself,  to  the  memoiy  of  Edward,  to  her  soul, 
and  to  God,  and  that  she  might  answer  the  final  ques 
tion  to  Fred. 

So,  alone  in  the  cold,  white,  colorless  chamber  of  her 
undraped,  ungarnished  soul,  she  knelt,  not  to  argue,  not 
to  question,  not  to  yearn,  or  implore,  or  supplicate, 
but  by  the  mighty  power  of  silent,  undoubting,  unhes 
itating  faith,  to  draw  herself  into  the  serene  presence  of 
her  highest  conception  of  God,  and  lay  herself  hopefully 
and  confidingly  at  His  feet,  in  silent,  receptive  com 
munion.  A  sweet  and  blessed  peace  seemed  to  steal 
upon  and  pervade  her  heart,  and  to  her  closed  eyes 
appeared  to  come  a  pure,  colorless  light,  gradually  in- 
24 


370  THE    PORTRAIT. 

creasing  until  the  apartment  was  luminous  with  it. 
Radiating  from  no  centre,  it  cast  no  shadows,  but  grew 
brighter  and  more  effulgent  until  every  surface  wa3 
tremulous  with  its  undazzling  brillancy.  Then  slowly 
it  receded  and  faded  out,  and  the  white  rays  of  tho 
moon  fell  through  the  uncurtained  window,  visible  in 
the  dim  light  of  the  lamp,  and  the  rustic  of  the  silken 
curtain  answered  back  to  the  whispering  zeplm1. 

Had  she  slept,  —  had  she  dreamed?  What  mattered 
it  ?  Light  and  rest  had  certainly  come  in  that  hour, 
and  drawing  a  covering  over  her,  she  passed  from  wak 
ing  to  sleeping  consciousness. 

Fred,  though  blessed,  and  for  him  happy,  like  most 
mortals,  found  great  incompleteness  —  something  want 
ing,  —  and  that  something  was,  after  all,  the  only  thing 
in  the  world.  He  had  Belle's  love,  —  he  knew  that 
he  wanted  her.  lie  -had  never  realty  hoped  for  her 
love.  He  knew  he  had  it  now,  and  this  knowledge 
brought  a  great,  but  at  best  a  pained  exaltation.  Now 
he  understood  it  all.  She  had  loved  him  ;  her  love  had 
inspired  her,  in  the  great  labor,  and  with  a  great  sagac 
ity,  to  catch  at  clews,  and  follow  them  through  lab 
yrinths  with  confidence,  where  others  could  not  see,  and 
followed  in  blind  distrust  and  uncertainty.  And  after 
all,  was  she  not  too  beautiful  and  good,  too  high  and 
sacred,  for  any  man's  wife  ?  So  he  could  but  canonize 
her,  and  surround  her  with  a  halo  of  saintship,  and  seb 
her  apart  for  worship.  But  it  brought  no  peace,  did  in 
no  way  meet  a  great  want.  She  would  not  change. 
She  had  set  herself  apart,  and  would  remain  conse 
crated,  and  it  was  not  for  him. to  throw  his  earthy 
shadow  over  the  st.ainlessiiess  of  her  soul. 


BELLE    SEXDS    ANOTHER    MESSAGE.  371 

The  awful  strain  which  for  man}"  days  had  been  upon 
his  strength  and  energies,  in  actual  and  long  labor,  and 
the  fearful  excitement  that  involved  the  deepest  and 
strongest  emotions  of  his  heart  during  the  da\",  and 
for  many  ckvys,  had  at  last  completely  exhausted  him  ; 
and  he  was  soon  overwhelmed  in  profound  and  dream 
less  sleep,  which  differed  from  death  oul}-,  in  the  vague, 
far-off,  feeble  consciousness  of  continuing  life.  When 
he  awoke,  he  awoke  from  a  deep  sleep,  almost  as 
profound-  as  that  from  which  it  is  said  the  dead  may 
finally  spring.  It  was  well  in  the  morning  as  he 
arose,  with  all  the  recent  events  throbbing  back  upon 
him.  Belle  was  the  first,  and  then  his  mother,  and 
these  brought  all  the  rest  back.  He  was  a  little  lan 
guid  and  a  little  sore,  and  found  that  his  eyelids  looked 
heavy,  as  if  oversteepcd  with  sleep.  lie  dressed  him 
self  slowly,  and  stepped  out.  Just  outside  stood  a 
young  girl,  a  maid  of  Belle's,  who  approached  him  with 
a  blush  and  courtesy  : 

"  Please,  sir  —  Miss  Belle  said  will  you  come  to  her, 
please?" 

"  Certainly  ;  "  and  by  a  way  new  to  him,  he  was  con 
ducted  down  and  through  a  passage  to  the  door  of  her 
boudoir,  which  was  slightly  ajar.  His  attendant  pushed 
it  open,  and  he  entered.  Belle,  without  raising  her 
eyes  to  his,  met  him  and  held  out  both  her  hands,  with 
a  conscious  flush  deepening  on  lip  and  cheek.  Won 
dering,  he  took  her  hands,  which  Avere  not  quite  steady, 
and  in  his  confusion  he  stooped  and  kissed  them,  and 
as  they  were  not  withdrawn,  he  lifted  his  face  towards 
hers  ;  there  were  her  rich  red  lips,  very  near,  and  to 
these  he  placed  his  own  ;  one  arm  clasped  that  little, 


372  THE    PORTRAIT. 

3'ielding  waist,  as  a  lover  clasps  ;  and  their  warm,  glad, 
happy  tears  united  and  fell.  A  moment,  —  "Belle  — 
this  means  love  and  hope  and  life  ?  "  —  in  breathless 
ccstacy. 

"Love  and  hope  and  life,  Fred  !" — just  raising  her 
eyes  and  dropping  them  again. 

"And  wifehood,  and  all  it  means?"  eagerly. 

"  And  wifehood,  and  all  it  means,"  with  sweet  firm 
ness. 

"  Freely  ?  "  —  a  little-  anxiousVy. 

"  Freely,  —  and  oh,  so  gladly  !  " 

And  they  knelt  together,  and  united  in  blessed 
thanks,  that  brought  new  blessings. 

In  the  capacious  library  adjoining  the  breakfast- 
room  were  assembled  the  other  members  of  the  party, 
awaiting  the  arrival  of  our  principal  personages.  The 
mother  had  not  seen  the  newly -found  son  that  morning, 
nor  had  Mr.  Morris  seen  Belle  ;  3~et  if  one  might  judge 
by  the  countenance,  Maud  was  more  anxious  for  their 
appearance  than  any  of  the  party.  So  intensely  and 
so  hopefully  had  she  sympathized  with  Belle's  love  for 
Fred,  and  quite  as  much  with  him,  and  so  little  had 
she  appreciated  what  appeared  to  her  as  the  shadowiest 
of  shadows,  which  Belle  permitted  to  interpose  between 
her  and  Fred,  that  she  was  impatient  for  the  conclu 
sion  which  to  her  clear-seeing  and  practical  mind  was 
at  some  time  soon,  inevitable.  The  grape-arbor  inter 
view  she  highly  approved  of;  but  she  had  observed 
that  they  returned  from  it  early,  and  she  had  seen 
nothing  of  either  since.  After  all,  was  this  son  of  a 
fiery  Southern,  with  his  French  blood,  to  prove  a  sort 
of  a  'Miss  Nancy  in  love'?  or  had  he,  too,  been 


BELLE    SENDS    ANOTHER    MESSAGE.  373 

infected  with  some  of  Belle's  ecstatic  notions  of  shad 
owy  marriages  in  heaven  ?  She  thought  that  he  would 
be  very  likely  to  have  health}'  views,  and  on  the  whole 
she  wras  hopeful.  Then  the  door  was  pushed  open,  and 
Belle  and  Fred  entered  and  paused  a  moment,  beautiful 
in  the  light  and  glow  of  their  perfect  happiness. 

"  Oh,  Belle  !  Belle  !  "  exclaimed  the  excited  and  now 
satisfied  Maud,  springing  forward,  and  throwing  her 
arms  about  her  sister's  neck.  "  Oh,  I  am  so  glad  !  " 
In  a  moment  it  flashed  upon  the  rest ;  and  father  and 
mother,  with  tears  and  happy  words,  embraced,  blessed, 
and  congratulated  the  lovers,  while  Marbury,  who  had  a 
profound  admiration  for  Fred's  talent,  and  who  hud  a 
real  liking  for  him,  assured  him,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
that  this  alone  was  needed  to  complete  the  happiest 
circle. 

A  moment  after,  Maud,  who  had  disappeared  from 
the  room,  returned  wiih  a  small  morocco  case  in  her 
hand,  and  going  to  Fred,  she  said :  "I  never  was  so 
near  having  a  brother  before  ;  let  me  contribute  some 
thing  to  make  this  new  relation  seem  more  real.  I 
knew  this  would  happen,  and  so  I  provided  for  this 
blessed  hour  !  "  She  opened  the  case,  and,  producing 
a  beautiful  solitaire,  Fred  took  the  ring,  mid  the  silence 
of  the  approving  throng,  and  placed  it  upon  the  finger 
of  the  blushing  Belle  ;  then  raising  the  jewelled  hand, 
pressed  it  to*  his  lips,  leaving  tears  upon  it.  Then,  with 
joined  hands,  the  two  received  the  blessings  of  the  father 
and  mother. 

The  housekeeper,  who  had  taken  special  care  of  Aunt 
Sally,  brought  that  personage  forward,  who  had  already 
learned  what  Belle  had  done  for  her  favorite,  and  she 


374  THE    PORTRAIT. 

stood  now  a  little  abashed  in  presence  of  Fred's  mother 
and  Belle  and  Maud,  glad  bej'oncl  expression  at  his 
wonderful  restoration,  yet  sad,  as  she  felt  that  he 
would  now  be  shut  away  from  her  forever.  As  she  en 
tered  and  paused,  Fred  seemed  to  comprehend  what 
was  passing  in  her  mind,  and  going  forward  to  her, 
took  her  hands,  and  cried  :  "  No,  no,  Aunt  Sally.!  You 
are  always  to  live  with  me,  and  be  nry  Aunt  Sally." 

"  With  us  !  "  cried  Belle,  coming  up  and  kissing  her  ; 
"  and  be  our  Aunt  Sally.  Next  to  his  mother,  you  have 
the  oldest  claim  upon  him,  and  we  will  make  you  blessed 
and  happy  !  "  When  Fred's  mother  joined  in  this  as 
surance,  the  old  woman  seemed  supremely  blessed. 

Sam  Warden  and  Jake,  who  were  discovered  at  the 
door,  were  brought  in,  Fred  saying,  pleasantly,  "  that 
as  Sam  was  a  sort  of  foster-father,  and  had  always  been 
kind  to  him,  he  thought  he,  too,  had  a  right  to  know 
of  the  marvellous  good  fortune  that  had  finally  overtaken 
him."  It  lost  him  not  a  bit  in  the  love  of  Belle,  that  in 
this  moment  he  should  recall  even  the  little  that  he 
owed  to  Sam.  Jake,  who  would  have  been  embarrassed 
by  the  presence  in  which  he  found  himself,  had  also  the 
grace  to  feel  the  position  he  occupied  towards  Fred, 
whom  he  had  met  but  once  since  they  parted,  the  night 
of  his  acquittal.  He  stood  hesitating  and  ciying.  As 
Fred  approached  him,  his  face  grew  first  sad,  as  the 
memories  and  sufferings  of  his  life  throrlged  through 
his  mind,  and  tears,  too,  came  into  his  eyes.  "Jake," 
he  said,  in  a  softened  voice,  "  we  are  finally  friends,  are 
we  not  ?  Not  a  word  of  the  past  years,  Jake.  In  a 
way,  we  were  involved  in  a  common  misfortune,  and 
thankful  are  we  that  we  have  escaped."  Jake  would 


BELLE    SENDS    ANOTHER   MESSAGE.  375 

have  spoken,  but  could  only  raise  Fred's  hand  to  his 
lips,  and  sob  over  it.  There  was  nature  even  in  him  ; 
and  it  had  at  last  been  touched,  and  at  that  moment 
he  looked  almost  good  in  Belle's  tear-blinded  e}-es. 

And  all  this  time  the  breakfast  cools,  —  and  let  it 
cool ! 


All  that  happened,  —  oh,  ever  and  ever  so  long  ago  ! 
Twenty-eight  years,  on  this  last  day  of  May,  1873,  as 
the  vision  fades  from  my  regretful  memory,  and  dwin 
dles  to  a  tale  that  brings  a  blinding  mist  to  m}'  eyes". 

Just  before  the  war,  which  has  antiquated  everything 
that  preceded  it,  I  stopped  at  the  Mantua  Station,  on 
the  Mahoning  Railroad,  after  long,  long  years  of  ab 
sence.  There  was  the  old  Judge  Atwater  mansion 
turned  into  a  tavern,  and  save  the  Cuyahoga,  a 
diminished  but  still  a  beautiful  stream,  my  eye  saw  no 
familiar  thing.  In  a  heavy  but  bent  form,  I  finally 
recognized  Darwin.  It  was  a  pilgrimage  for  me  ;  and, 
as  I  stood  about  the  depot,  curious  strangers  looked  at 
me,  and  queried  of  my  name,  and  when  they  heard  it, 
no  man  could  identify  me,  and  I  knew  none  of  them. 
I  wandered  up  the  banks  of  the  river,  recalling 
all  the  past.  In  a  ba}'ou  overhung  with  willows  was 
the  remains  of  a  little  dug-out,  covered  with  the  still 
water,  and  nearly  buried  with  drift.  Somehow  it  re 
minded  me  of  Fred's  little  canoe,  cast  adrift  so  long 
ago.  Farther  up,  in  a  lonely  mullen  and  thistle-grown 
field,  remote  from  any  dwelling,  I  recognized  the  de 
serted  heap  of  stones,  and  the  solitary  apple-tree,  that 
marked  the  site  of  the  rude  hut  that  sheltered  his  child- 


376  THE    PORTRAIT. 

isli  3'ears.  Melancholy  beyond  expression,  I  returned 
to  the  Station,  and  wandered  up  the  old  State  road, 
towards  the  Corners.  The  old  brick  tavern  had  dis 
appeared,  and  no  vestige  of  the  old  South  School- 
house  remained.  Chapman,  an  elderly  man,  had  turned 
farmer,  and  grown  weight}'.  Turner  had  been  for  years 
out  of  the  hotel,  and  was  also  a  thriving  farmer. 
Nothing  at  the  Corners  remained.  Young  Foster  had 
built  a  new  store,  where  the  old  Maryfield  house  once 
stood,  and  a  stranger  was  in  the  old  tavern-house.  In 
the  kitchen-garden,  under  the  barberry  bushes,  was  a 
small  marble  pillar,  with  the  name  "  Sir  Walter."  In 
the  now  populous  cemetery,  over  west,  by  the  side 
of  Elias's  grave,  stood  another  stone,  sacred  to  the 
mcmorj'  of  Mary  Carman,  and  still  another  to  the 
mcmor}'  of  Sarah.  Uncle  Bill  Skinner  slept  near  by, 
and  a  neat  stone  marked  the  resting-place  of  Betsey 
Warden,  having  "  Fred "  on  its  base.  Fenton  had 
moved  away. 

My  friend  George  Sheldon  took  me  up  the  State 
road,  just  beyond  where  the  Fenton  place  was,  and 
there  in  a  little  cottage,  presided  over  by  a  beautiful 
daughter  of  Sarah,  we  found  Uncle  Seth,  still  serene 
and  cheerful ;  although,  save  this  young  maiden  and 
her  sisters,  nobody  was  left  to  him,  Martha  had  died 
years  before,  in  her  distant  home,  and  slept  in  other 
earth. 

We  went  along  up  to  the  next  corners,  from  which  a 
mile  cast  could  be  seen  the  upper  story  of  the  Carman 
farm-house,  to  which  we  drove.  The  old  pear-tree  was 
dead,  but  still  standing,  a  monument  of  the  blight  and 
decay  that  had  fallen  on  the  once  beautiful  homestead. 


BELLE    SENDS    ANOTHER    MESSzYGE.  377 

The  farm-house  was  shabby  and  neglected,  weeds  and 
burdock  were  in  the  yard  ;  Sarah's  flower-garden  had 
been  turned  into  a  pig-yard,  and  neglect  and  ruin 
brooded  over  all  the  old  home.  A  coarse,  common  man 
had  purchased  the  property,  and  cut  down  a  part  of  the 
old  orchards,  and  left  the  fallen  trees  to  decay  where 
they  fell.  The  fences  were  rotting,  and  falling  down  ; 
the  "Springs"  were  choked  up,  producing  bogs  and 
small  swamps. 

We  drove  over  to  the  Rapids.  The  magnificent 
chestnut  forests  had  been  cut  away,  and  rude,  Stumpy 
fields  and  sordid  farm-houses  gleamed  and  glinted  in 
the  late  August  sun.  The  Furmans  had  moved  away. 
All  the  forests  had  vanished  from  the  now  tame  and 
shrunken  Cuyahoga.  A  flouring-mill  and  machine- 
shop  employed  the  water,  and  the  already  dilapidated 
little  wooden  town  of  Harrison  disfigured  the  eastern 
bank  of  the  river. 

We  talked  over  the  eld  time  exploit  of  Fred ;  the 
rescue  of  the  drowning  maiden  —  whom  we  also  saw,  a 
comely  matron  with  her  children  —  and  recalled  the 
fortunes  of  some  who  had  been  connected  with  his 
earlier  years. 

Jake  Green  had  accompanied  Warden  back  to  Mis 
souri,  and  had  not  been  heard  of  for  3'ears. 

Father  Henry  had  lost  his  voice  in  the  dark  waters. 
He  "assisted"  at  the  wedding  of  Fred  and  Belle; 
and  the  quaint  and  tender  things  said  to  have  been 
uttered  by  him  on  that  occasion  were  still  remem 
bered  and  repeated  with  variations  and  additions. 

And  Belle  and  Fred,  —  what  of  them?  —  whose  real 
lives  were  about  to  commence  so  brightly,  beautifully, 


378  THE    PORTRAIT. 

and  hopefully?  Would  you  know?  They  had  a  his 
tory,  and  if  the  world  evinces  an  interest  in  these  pre 
liminary  chapters,  that  history,  much  of  which  the 
world  knows,  ma}-  be  indicted  more  complete^'. 


DATE  DUE 


CAYLORD 


A     000550609     2 


